


RED BEAST - Book three : Valteline

by FreyaLor



Series: RED BEAST [3]
Category: French History RPF
Genre: 17th century French politics, Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bipolar Disorder, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Journey, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Recovery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Trauma, Violence, historical fiction - Freeform, improvement, learning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-01-30 15:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21430414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: Ten years of Richelieu and Louis XIII's life, between 1624 and 1634, from Richelieu's first Royal Council to the Thirty Years War.Ten years of pure French History, with an added twist : Armand and Louis do more, much more than just work together for France.Don't be fooled by the historical details, the violence, the angst : this is gay romance, and nothing else. This is the ten-years journey of a lonely King learning to become a better man for the love of a visionary priest.BOOK THREE : The Valteline Wars (1629-1630)
Relationships: Louis XIII of France/Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu
Series: RED BEAST [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493687
Comments: 16
Kudos: 98





	1. January the 14th 1629, Evening Salon, The Louvre, Paris.

While La Vieuxville is cautiously shuffling the cards, I quickly gesture for more wine and sit back into my chair. I’ve had luckier days. I’ve seen too many senseless noblemen lose fortunes on those playing tables to place my own bets too high, but still. I was looking for distraction, not further reasons to feel miserable.

Well, it seems I’d better drop all hopes, anyway, because the doors of the evening salon just slid open, and _that red_ has caught my eyes again.

La Vieuxville distributes the cards, but I don’t even spare them a glance. I gulp down my wine and nod for another fill, unable to turn away from Richelieu’s silent entrance.

  
Silent, because his footsteps barely make a sound, but also because half of the room’s conversations stop dead as he enters, dozens of hateful stares turning to him in disdain. I know he notices, but I’d wager I’m the only one who does. That tense twitch of his jaw and a sharp tightening of his fingers around his documents are the only visible clues of his pain. The rest of him just flies through the room in a whirl of silk to bow for me alone, claiming once more that I’m the only presence he cares to acknowledge in the room.

I greet him with a tilt of the head, and since we haven’t been able to talk in anything more than awkward grunts and stammering for twenty days, I just bury myself in my hand of cards. Three Queens and an ace.

_Hah._ Luck, of course, chose this moment to come back to me.

I feel, for a while, his intense stare burning right through my skin, crushing me with guilt, rage and longing before Armand straightens his back and has the leniency to look away. 

He did write the letter I was foolish enough to ask of him last Christmas Eve, and very skilfully so. He wrote five pages of devout, courteous praise, chastising himself for neglecting her and literally begging for forgiveness, so ardently it almost hurt.

  
I brought the letter to Mother myself, trying once more to talk her into a truce, but she hardly glanced at it before she threw it all in the hearth with a string of insults in Italian. Her face grew even uglier as she snickered, and I felt like the idiot I had been. She would never be appeased; she would never rest until Armand lies dead. There was no bargaining, no bribe, no sweet talking, no trade. She had become almighty in this Palace of lies, and fool I had been, she would _never_ change her mind.

The letter burned to white embers, and the very next day, she sent away from her entourage every courtier, valet, advisor and maid she suspected to have even the slightest connection with Richelieu.

By the panicked face the Cardinal had for a whole week afterwards, I suppose she guessed right. The Red Beast had lost his eyes and ears in the most dangerous house of the Louvre, and he was perfectly aware that falling even a few steps behind in that particular stream of gossip could mean him waking up with a slit throat one day.

His terror of her had only grown ever since.

And I, mortified and bitter, persuaded my weakness had destroyed any warmth he’d have left for me, spent the first days avoiding the mere sight of him, seeking refuge in useless hunts through empty woods, or in forceful practising of pistols I wasn’t likely to use. Whenever work or protocol forced us in the same spot, I kept my eyes on the windows, and let out as little speech as I possibly could.

Which, really, hasn’t been a lot.

Between his sheer dismay and my unease, we could have continued this exhausting game straight into next year. But last Monday, as I was sending him out of my apartments with a heap of signed documents, I caught a glimpse of him through a mirror by pure luck, and to my surprise, there was nothing like the cold disdain I expected in his eyes.

There was suffering, loss, hope and yearning, so loud I think I heard it clearly. I realised, then, that the bond between us went much deeper than his fears, far beyond my failures, and a warm rush of relief rose from my tormented heart.

I had been wrong, once more. Wrong to trust her, wrong to doubt him. No matter how betrayed he must have felt, the forces that drew him towards me were much greater than both of us.

His slender hands around my heart forevermore.

His name and mine, entwined on the pages of History.

Delighted, I started to show myself as kind again. I smiled, inviting, praising his attitude, offering him wine, asking about his day, and I felt him welcoming my affection with ever renewed joy, as I am sure by now, he always will.

But the fat, relentless Juno I have been granted as mother was never far away from me, her voice heard through the corridors, her stench pervading every room, and while he still could feel the slightest hint of her presence, the effects of my kindness were quite short-lived. His timid smiles never lasted for long, and he kept throwing distressed glances her way over my shoulder, his terror spiralling fast at the mere echo of her footsteps.

A few months before this man had been standing unfazed, his armour glistening with seawater and rain, facing the mightiest ship England had ever bought sailing towards him at full speed. Yet, by then, the smallest move of that pudgy, idiotic woman sent him recoiling in dread against the nearest wall.

And truth be told, _I understood him._

Give me wars, give me battlefields. Give me cannons and sharpened swords. I will never fear them more than I fear this kind of woman when they have death on their mind.

There was no peace of mind with Mother around, neither for Armand nor for me. Even as we locked ourselves in the safety of his study, the mention of her name still frightened him out of my reach. I was torn to shreds by my helplessness, unable to bear the rising truth that sooner or later I would have to make a choice because, unless I find it in me to do so, life with both of them would be like Hell to me.

She made me want to hurt her so bad I couldn't stand my own thoughts.

He filled me with shame, anguish and misery with each one of his glances.

And to this day, _they both still do._

The Cardinal steps back from my card table, his clever eyes searching through the salon, and swiftly strides to an empty corner of the room a few yards to my left where a young, plump lady in waiting is sitting by the window by herself with boredom written on her face. She’s one of Madame d’Elbeuf’s I think. Not her favourite, but her newest, no doubt.

The young lady jumps in surprise, her bright, innocent eyes widening as the red figure approaches.

It’s true, _he’s impressive. _

His wide red robes, especially made for him by the Canuts of Lyon, are of the rarest silk in France. They billow around his tall, slender frame, marking his status, his wealth, his _power_. He’s all dignified poses, deadly stares, quick gestures, and he bloody well knows how to lift his chin.

But he’s not there to threaten her, he speaks gently instead. He’s turning away from me, and I can’t hear a word of it, but I still pick up his caressing tone. The young maid’s face brightens, her cheeks reddening in pleasure, and she positively squirms on her seat, _giggling. _

I roll my eyes, but who am I to do so?

It’s true, he’s _charming_.

He’s not quite the standard of male beauty, for sure. Too lean, too pale, his brown locks having too soon turned to silver grey. And yet, his ensnaring elegance is still to be matched in all of Paris, and the way he uses his voice, gentler than any man of his rank is expected to, never misses its target. The words he chooses, carved like jewellery, devilishly sincere, have won colder hearts, I must admit.

Much,_ much_ colder hearts indeed.

He shifts his hands closer to his chest and subtly leans forward to look less threatening, oh, I’m sure he’s lowering his eyelids right now, letting candlelight play with his hair. I don’t see it, I don’t need to, I’m just watching him shine in the eyes of that young girl.

She’s panting. _She's conquered._

My servant, my _property_, has just seduced this nameless maid right under my nose, in less than five minutes.

_  
_I could have been jealous, a few years ago, but I know that gait of his, I know that smile by heart. I know every twitch of him by now. I’d recognise this sugary smell of deceit anywhere because it's the mask he wears every day at Court. This charm, this poise, this gentleness, it’s all a masterpiece of treachery, his lies so well-rehearsed they forget what they are. It looks like affection, it sounds like temptation, but it couldn’t be further from the fire in his eyes whenever I touch his neck.

Well. Not that I’m allowed do that a lot these days, but it doesn't change a thing.

I know he doesn’t care if she lives or dies, he’s the Red Snake, she’s only a mouse. As she glows in sheer delight, she's being trapped in iron claws.

“It’s your turn, Your Majesty” La Vieuxville says, and I just lift a finger to stop the game.

Now that I have seen it begin, I want to know how Armand's own kind of _hunt _is going to end.

He has pulled a small box out of the bunch of papers he’s holding and has handed it to the maid with a short, smooth sentence. The girl beams pride and glee for a second, taking the box with trembling hands. The Red Beast sits next to her then, on that bench made for valets and low-ranked courtiers, and since his face is now turned towards me, I understand his words better.

“Naturally.” I hear him soothing. “Your mother has always been a most devout support for my church back in Luçon, I owed your family nothing less.”

The lady in waiting timidly opens the box and gasps in wonder, pulling out a discrete reliquary, decently ornate from what I can see. She stammers confused thanks, but he waves them away with poised, _saintly _elegance.

“It isn’t much” He reassures her. “I had quite a lot of blessed artefacts brought to La Rochelle from every corner of France since new Churches were about to be consecrated there. I asked every bishopric to make donations and found myself a victim of my own success. I had to send back a few because there wasn’t enough space for all of them. Except for this one, I kept for you. Your gracious piety has not passed unnoticed to me.”

Hah! _Rubbish. _

He never mentioned that girl to me once. I'll be bloody _damned_ if that trinket was ever meant for her.

But it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not does it? She believes him, radiant with joy, and that is what faith is all about. He smirks, delicate, _mesmerising_, and as she flutters her eyelids, I wince at how unfair the fight has been.

She's young and naive. He's smart and magnificent. _She didn’t stand a chance. _

But as wildlife hunting abides by the clean, honest laws of the forest, the Louvre has twisted, corrupted ways, and if I can claim myself a master in the woods of Versailles, here in this hellhole of smoke and mirrors, Du Plessis Richelieu is by far one of the most fearsome killers around.

No matter how innocent, that girl should at least have known that.

So as she hides the reliquary in her dress, her docile, eager stare already promising Armand untainted obedience to the smallest of his whims, I feel no sympathy for her. Only vague amazement for the perfect efficiency of the Red Beast's flirtatious trap. The kind of respect, I suppose, that a good hunter owes another.

I barely have time to signal La Vieuxville to start the game again when from the table of ladies right next to mine, my mother, furious, stands up in a thunder of furniture and brocade to bellow as she walks to him.

“I am glad to see His Eminence found time to collect _ornaments_ on a siege war where our King fell so gravely ill!”

Oh, _not again. _

While the chattering in the room had started again a few moments after Richelieu arrived, all conversations are definitely dead this time. Everyone is staring, _oh, Mother, for God's sake._

Armand gets up, and if I read his terror clear enough in the whitening of his knuckles, he is a predator of the Louvre facing his match, in intrigue at least, and by sheer instinct of survival, he remains graceful and dignified, standing his ground with all his height.

“I assure you_ again_, Madame,” he sighs, “that in everything I did, I only ever had the interests of France in mind.”

“Well, _Monsieur de Luçon_,” she spits, shaking her fan under her bloated, juggling neck, “I am the King's Mother, and I care for his well-being because _someone_ in his entourage obviously has to!”

I flinch nervously. The monstrous witch knows where to hit. She indeed is my mother, and the fact that this black-teethed tyrant, wanting him dead with every foul breath she takes, had once given birth to _me_ has been his worst nightmare since he recovered from La Rochelle.

Unsettled to the core of him, his burning guilt concerning the sickness that struck me last winter only making her accusations worse, and pressured by the whole salon staring at him, he visibly digs into the darkest part of his merciless wits. I've seen it at work once or twice, and I know that his next sarcasm, brewing low inside his throat, is about to _destroy her._

Yet, he doesn't speak them right away. He's still cautious. _He's still afraid. _Instead of a reply, he bites his lips on his hurt and looks for me over her shoulder, asking me, and _me alone_, for the permission to defend himself.

_Bloody hell. _

Crushed by a sudden wave of anguish, I don't move at all. 

Every time, _every time_ they fight, and it happens every two days I swear, it sucks the life out of my chest. Give me armies, give me battlefields, give me a hundred enemy cannons aimed at my heart in a straight line, but in front of _them_, what can I do?

She makes me want to hurt her so bad I can’t stand my own thoughts.

He fills me with shame, anguish and misery with each one of his glances.

There has never been a world when I can keep them both.

I soon would have to make a choice, because unless I find it in me to do so, _then I shall have neither of them._

Behind Armand, I vaguely see the plump young lady in waiting hurry out of her seat, terrified by the tension in the room, throwing desperate, imploring looks at the table of Generals.

_Oh._ Now that I think about it, isn't that rosy-cheeked, clueless child one of Marillac's occasional mistresses? Marillac, to my utter dismay, has grown quite close to my Mother those days.

  
  


_Hah.  
Now I understand. _

The sly bastard is already crawling his way back inside my mother's walls, and while she's visibly just mad at him for using his charms on a younger, fairer woman, she should be angry at his relentless ability to outwit her every move. She can make the whole Louvre tremble, it is true, but that man is a _snake, _his mind sharpened like a blade by twenty years of schemes and politics, his bravery tested by the cruellest of battlefields.

And now, he’s looking right into my eyes, asking me to let him speak.

And if I do, what will happen?

His words will be sharp and pierce through her skin. She won't come out with a clever response straight away and be humiliated in front of the whole staring salon. It'd only double her rage, and where will it lead? She won't shut up, not even once, she'll never care, she'll never stop. I’ll want her gone so often that one day I'll want her dead_, and for Heaven’s sake, I am her son._

There is no peace bargain, no safe route, and choosing once more the lesser evil, I subtly shake my head and forbid him to speak, and it’s him who has to bend his neck again, _I know, I am sorry_, but between the two of them, he’s the only one clever enough to understand why.

  
  
A flash of pain passes in his eyes, but after a moment, he only purses his lips, and obediently lowers his head. He’s not angry, he’s heartbroken, and I’m not sure it’s much better.

_'I couldn't bear to be the source of any ill feeling between Your Majesty and his mother.'_

Mother _gloats_, of course, as he bows with stiff grace and steps aside, _oh beware, filthy mare, I won’t stand this for much longer. _

Eager to make up for my apparent lack of support, I search for his eyes, trying to give a softer smile, something reassuring, to reward him for his docility, but I don't think he can read my face. He slides towards the door, broken, aghast, no doubt retreating to his chambers to crumble there unnoticed, but it seems fate doesn't see his way.

Joseph appears out of thin air, Lord, I thought he was in Fontfroide, in how many places can this sorcerer be at the same time?

The monk, again, barely nods at me, and goes straight for Richelieu, slipping a note into his hands. The Cardinal whispers a few words and reads, while Joseph's acute eyes go from Armand's troubled face to Mother and me.

The capuchin hisses in Latin between his clenched teeth and frowns in concern.

_This demented monk always seems to understand everything._

When Richelieu folds back the note in half, his cheeks have lost all colour. He leans over Joseph, breathing a few quick questions in his ear. The monk nods once, twice. The Cardinal visibly _whimpers_ then and lifts desperate eyes to the ceiling for a while.

Joseph, intuitive, tries to shield him from my view, but I still see Armand wiping his eyes furtively with trembling fingers before he turns to me. He doesn't need to speak, he doesn't need to call.

I can read those storms of anthracite clearer than any paper, and I always will. _I know every twitch of him by now. _

I growl at La Vieuxville to summon an emergency Council.

_Something tells me we're going to war again. _

***

When the doors of the council room close upon my Ministers and me, I let out a sigh of relief. Mother has no place in an emergency war council, and that puts an end to the torture of having both her and Richelieu in the same walls.

Besides, I sense Armand breathing a little more freely since he is liberated from the painful compromises my torment keeps imposing him. I gladly confirm his thoughts by letting him stand on my right and speak as he pleases, trying to ignore the stab of hurt as he’s still too troubled to look me in the eyes_, for God’s sake, Armand, I am **trying **to comfort you_.

Calm down, focus, _I need that man._

At my council, _and in my bed. _

When Joseph brings maps and documents to the table, Richelieu lays down the facts in plain, undecorated words.

“News from Valteline have just arrived. After our success in our previous argument with the Vatican, the Spanish have been forced to look elsewhere for a way to ensure passage through the Alps and create a junction between their Southern and Northern territories. It appears they have found it, in the person of the Duke of Savoy, Charles-Emmanuel. He has signed a pact with Olivares to invade Montferrat together and make it an alternative junction point.”

A confused huff of surprise breathes through the circle of men around the table, and I just rest my head against the back of the chair to look up through the high windows.

Snow is gently falling on the gardens again, and I briefly wonder how my lands of Versailles look like by now. I watch the unhurried dance of snowflakes against the windowpane, wishing I could step outside and catch a few of them in my hand, the way I used to do when I was young.

Not yet a King. Barely a child.

  
  
“The French city of Casal is now surrounded by Savoy, and Spain's joint forces,” Richelieu adds quietly, “trapping inside His Majesty's friend and vassal the Duke of Nevers.”

_God, Charles, it's true_. His family pledged allegiance to my bloodline ages ago. They have never failed in their word.

“What _forces_ exactly?” I ask, frowning, but keeping my stare into the snow.

Joseph unfolds a map of Mantoue and starts listing Spain and Savoy's men, weapons and horses. As he speaks, I feel my lips curl into a hungry smile of their own will.

They have twenty thousand men. I had twice more at La Rochelle, and I can have them back. The ancient fortified city and the whole English fleet have crumbled at my feet surrendering, so do those Spanish bastards seriously think they will frighten me with twenty thousand miserable men around such a small town as _Casal_?

_I’ll crush them. _

I know that thrill running up my spine, it’s the same every time a deer gets caught in my aim. It’s the same every time my cannons tear a breach in high ramparts. It’s a hunger for war, lust for battlefields. It boils in my blood, it flows in my flesh.

It’s the very stone the Bourbons are carved into.

I slowly sit up, ready to declare war, but as I look around the Council Table, all I see, _again_, are dubious faces and terrified stares.

“We cannot take such risk” La Vieuxville stammers, “with the siege of La Rochelle having ended barely a month ago, our soldiers exhausted, and our finances still low.”

“Indeed !” La Rochefoucault adds, his hands uneasy. “Besides, shouldn't we focus our attention upon conflicts growing closer to our very doors, such as the remaining Huguenot riots in Limousin that Condé hasn't yet managed to tame?”

“We deeply sympathise with our ally, the Duke of Nevers,” Champigny slides in, more confident, “but we simply can't afford another La Rochelle so soon. This would be a financial disaster.”

_What?_

My hands clench into fists. A bunch of old _cowards_, this is what I have as Council. They all forgot everything about war. All they care about is their pension, their estate, and their bloody mistresses.

I am the conqueror of La Rochelle, my banner danced on her highest tower. I crushed a hundred ships under cannon fire; I built the glory their fat lazy guts are sitting upon.

Let them come, those twenty thousand men.

I have better horses, I have better guns. I have loyal soldiers, I have good officers. And if Spain has Olivares, _well, France has her own Beast._

Why am I keeping those slugs in my Council? They haven't got anything done in years. I could send them all to retirement or exile, France wouldn't be ruled any less properly. It's been a long time since Armand became the only voice I listen to anyway. I turn to him, standing next to me in poised silence, his trouble visibly replaced by focus.

He isn't a Minister anymore, hasn't been for long.

He's _the_ Minister. _My_ Minister.

I clear my throat, and he looks at me at last. His stare is inquiring, but not for long. This rage in my eyes, he knows it far too well. He knows the drums of battle pulsing in my heart, the cries of victory echoing in my throat. He knows the stone I was carved into. The Cardinal quickly glances at Joseph, then. By the furious, scornful glare the black monk is having for the Ministers around him, it's quite obvious he thinks the same as I. Armand finally sighs, leaning back towards me as if we were alone in this room, and after all, somehow _we are. _

_Will you follow me again?_ My eyes demand.

He nods, just once. _I will follow you always_, his silence says.

I give out a furtive smile. That bond between us goes much deeper than his fears, far beyond my failures. His slender hands around my heart forevermore. His name and mine, entwined on the pages of History.

I stand up in a heartbeat, then, snapping my fingers to impose silence.

“The Duke of Nevers is a friend of France.” I declare, adamant. “He has welcomed the authority of the Crown upon his lands in exchange for a promise of safety and protection. This bond between a King and a Lord has crossed centuries before us, through my father, and my father's father. I will not stand idle while a loyal ally of mine is being attacked. If I give up on our friend today, how could I hope for my promises to be considered worthy in the future?”

Around the table, a few men seem willing to argue, but something in my eyes makes them change their minds, and they all purse their lips, they all lower their heads. _Good. _I was finding the idea of exile letters _very tempting._

“Cardinal” I call, speaking over my shoulder, “gather the Generals.”

Armand steps forward and bows gracefully, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. _Very good._ He too must feel the stench of my mother fading quickly as the smell of gunpowder draws near.

“We will be marching over the Alps within the month,” I state. “Council dismissed.”

They all leave without a word.

All except Joseph. Before he follows the Ministers, the black monk turns around with a pensive finger on his mouth. He strides to Armand, draws his attention by a sharp pull on his sleeve, and whispers in his ear again. Richelieu’s eyes dart to me, _oh you know I hate to be spoken about while I’m in the room._

“I am right here, Father,” I grunt. “Speak your mind.”

But he peacefully finishes his sentence in the Cardinal’s ear instead, and when he turns to me, it’s to walk in my direction as if we were on a tranquil Easter Sunday. He stops so close our chests almost touch, and I stand his piercing stare as I would stand a siege.

Eventually, his face softens, and he speaks one more of his Latin blessings, drawing a quick cross on my forehead.

“May France be victorious again.” He drops at my feet, and he spins around towards the door.

While his footsteps fade away behind the gates, I watch Richelieu gather the maps and documents, his eyes already lost in one of his mental lists no doubt.

“What did your hawk say about me?” I throw him.

The prospect of war must definitely have heartened him, because he huffs a shy laugh at my choice of word, and gently explains.

“He was merely evoking the matter of who would lead the army to Casal, Your Majesty.”

What, is there even a doubt about that? _Oh, wait. _

“You want to propose Gaston again don’t you?”

He doesn’t look at me, not exactly. His eyes settle around my boots again, and he tilts his head to the side, his voice careful, and his words subtle.

“It has proven effective more than once to … channel His Highness d’Orléans warlike urges to a direction that serves Your Majesty’s purposes.”

_Ha!_ You think I would let _Gaston_, the cherished son, cover himself with glory and trot back here to gloat while I sit in this palace of nightmares dealing with _Mother_?

Effective or not, I don’t need to give bloody Gaston one more chance to take what’s rightfully mine.

I need war. I need swords and musket fire. _I need you._

“Those leading the French army to Casal will be you and me, no one else.” I hammer.

With that, after an instinctive look around, I march towards him, and though his fearful flinch back cannot be ignored, he remains where he is, waiting for me with obedience in his eyes once more. He’s still anxious, but he’s feeling better by the second, and I notice, relieved, clouds of torment receding in his eyes.

War will send us on the road for months once more, away from here.

_Away from her. _

_  
_I step closer, enough to sense his warmth, and he welcomes me with a slight drop of his shoulders. I realise with a deep sigh that if he’s afraid of my mother alright, at least he’s not afraid of _me_ anymore.

A victory march to my heart and soul. A victory upon my own anger, my own fury. _The benefits of being kind. _

Since his hands are busy with papers, my fingers go for his hair, of course, brushing it behind his delicate jawline again. I lean against him, pouring comfort in my stance, trying to make him _feel_ the reassurance he couldn’t see earlier, and breathe along his cheek,

“Aren’t we unstoppable, you and I, _my dear Armand?_”

I consider the low, languid moan he lets out as quite decent approval.


	2. April the 6th 1629, Citadel of Casal, Montferrat, Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut : voyeurism, wanking

And to war, we marched.

Richelieu, untiring, summoned every soldier of La Rochelle back from wherever he was, may it be a garrison or his own hometown, and ordered the whole army to join us back along the way to the Alps. For a whole tiresome, sleepless month, he organised supplies, stopovers, passage points, and strategy.

Toiras, Schomberg, Treville, and Bassompierre, on the other hand, cleaned their armours and readied their horses in a matter of hours, answering my call without question.

In addition to that, the Cardinal took upon himself to make sure Mother's new regency wouldn't allow her to corrupt everything we had built in Paris this time again. Both her and Gaston had their reasons to be furious by then, and it sent Armand's overactive mind to dreadful heights of anxiety.

As consequence, in the last few days before our departure, the Red Beast made me approve and sign no less than a hundred different laws and decrees, from tax system to trade procedures, from succession rules to nomination of state agents, from building maintenance to Court etiquette, trying to put a frame, a cage around Mother’s incoming reign.

It did reassure him a little, but although I felt myself grinning like a battle-famished wolf as we passed the gates of the Louvre heading South with five thousand men, he still stole restrained and worried glances back at the Palace as he rode by my side.

February had just begun, bringing confused winds and nasty frost along in his dance. The paved roads were slippery; the dirt roads were hard as stone.

Soldiers winced against harsh gusts of biting snow, and horses struggled through angry, bickering hail. The woods and forests we passed by offered no shelter at all, and country towns hadn’t much more to give than timid fires and watered down soup. The skies were closed, and the earth was dead, _fine weather to cross the whole country for sure. _

But still. _To war, we marched. _

Armand, riding without a word in my shadow, remained unbearably tense until we passed Auxerre, but as we went on further south, from quiet evening camps to long strategy meetings, he somewhat relaxed a little, and I found the time to wonder at the fact that he very naturally found the presence of my Mother more stressful than the crossing of the Alps in _mid-winter. _

Still, as the grip of his terror loosened a bit around his throat, I kept the demons of La Rochelle away by doubling my _attentions_ for him.

It was only natural. Fate was giving me some more time with him after all, and I had no intention to spend it in the company of the Ice Monster on the seawall. I learned my lesson well. I kept taming my anger.

I knew I could trust them, _the benefits of being kind._

I made him sit at my right wherever we went, I praised his wits, I poured him wine and clasped his arm. There was no point in demonstrating his merit or his value to anyone, because though his admirable deeds of La Rochelle didn’t impress the narrow-minded Courtiers of the Louvre, among soldiers he had already become legend, saluted every day with genuine respect. The other generals considered him as one of theirs, a fighter, nothing less, even Treville who still couldn’t help rolling his eyes from time to time.

This was not etiquette, this was not politics.

If I smiled at him in public, if I made him ride at my side, it was only to _please_ him.

I could have spared myself the efforts, I know. I could have yelled until he knelt. I could have grabbed his wrists and made him do just about whatever I wished. I know he was strong enough to take it.

  
But truth be told, I didn’t want to.

Fury and violence might have been the essence of everything else in my world, but I didn't want them to control my hands on his skin anymore. Not then. _Not ever. _

I needed him functioning. _I preferred him peaceful. _

And peaceful he grew.

Though he was barely looking at me in the eyes when we left Paris, by the time we reached Dijon he was letting me kiss his neck whenever we were alone, and though we were far too occupied to indulge in what my skin was howling for, it was enough to make me feel _invincible_.

With every day passing by without the name of my mother being mentioned in his presence, he bloomed back into the quiet, devoted creature I like him to be, his devilish mind and subtle elegance at my service once more, and the swell of happiness surprisingly lifted my heart from time to time along the way.

As we passed the towers of Lyon, all summoned soldiers had joined our ranks. We had thirty-five thousand men and three thousand horses following us once more. The whole army of La Rochelle, revived, _resolved. _I thought myself ready to challenge a _continent. _

As February ended we passed the Alps in Pas de Suse under a furious snowstorm.  
  
Our men marched on foot, on horses or on mules, our weapons and supplies tied to improbable slides pulled by donkeys, our path determined by tricky maps and local shepherds.

It was three hours march up and down a narrow pass, the road barely large enough for the smallest of all carts, deadly crevasses hidden all around. One wrong move would kill dozens, and yet my dear brave French soldiers, true to their good-hearted careless nature, they went through it laughing.

I swear to God, _laughing_.

I remember that moment when the most reliable map of the area slipped from my frozen fingers in the winding, messy descent from the pass. We all stared dumbfounded as Richelieu leapt off his horse and rolled in the snow to catch the precious paper, ending up laying sideways, covered in powder from hair to boots.

“Brush that white away from your cloak, Richelieu” Schomberg shouted at him. “You look like a Pope, and it’s bloody terrifying.”

I think Armand chuckled, but maybe he was only shaking the snow off his head.

We reached the valley of Suse without a single loss. Hundreds could have died in this insane endeavour, but not a single man faltered in his path. They all followed against the wind, knee-deep into the snow, without a glance, without a growl. They were on their way to defend their country, and by the steady looks on their faces, it only looked ordinary to them.

They laughed, all the way through it.

I felt blessed like never before, King of the most admirable people in the world.

The first city to reconquer on our way to Casal was Suse. The town itself was barely defended. The real stronghold was hovering a hundred yards above it in thick ramparts of grey stone: the fort of Gelase, with seventeen thousand men inside and seventy good cannons.

We set camp at the foot of the mountain the fort was built upon, making a show of taking all the time in the world, letting pigs roast and songs rise high. We were thirty-five thousand after all, and truly, even with all Gods of war on their side, the regiment in the fort didn't stand much of a chance.

Obviously, the Spanish and Savoy knew it too, because the last tents weren't even tied to the ground yet when a first emissary of Charles-Emmanuel arrived in our camp, on the fifth day of March. He called himself the Count de Verrue and came to my quarters, offering us the surrendering of Fort Gelase against the keys to another “_significant_” French city.

Before I opened my mouth to speak my outraged dissent, I heard a dark, mocking laughter rise beside me. Armand stood there, smirking like a devil, his thick fur coat cascading from his shoulders, his thin, pale hands joined around a cup of tea.

“Oh, but _of course_.” He sneered. “Do you want Poitiers or Orléans?”

I saw Bassompierre and Toiras behind him bite their lips in repressed hilarity, and the poor Count's face crumpled in dismay. Somehow I took pity on the man, and to put an end to his humiliation, I dismissed him with a polite message of refusal for Charles-Emmanuel.

When the Count de Verrue slipped out of the tent, Toiras clapped his thigh, cackling, and I tutted in disapproval.

“We will assault the fort at dawn,” I said, but they had already figured it out, I suppose.

As we stood around the campfire the next morning, looking up at the impressive towers of the ancient castle, Schomberg and Toiras, confident, suggested a quick, simple attack using the main route upwards to the fort. They evaluated the whole battle would last less than a few hours, and they were likely to be right. Casal, after all, had been under siege for four months already, and the Duke of Nevers was desperately in need of us. Time was being short.

But Bassompierre and Treville, on the other hand, weren't comfortable with the amount of time our men would spend within the stronghold's cannon aim, claiming that if indeed this wasn't the main battle our army came for, then our losses should be kept at a minimum.

They were right. _All four of them. _

I found myself, once more, looking at Armand for arbitration.

I watched him frowning, biting his thumb in worry, inspecting in turns the map in his hands and the woods around us.

“All of Your Majesty's officers are of sound advice,” he mused after a while, “we must indeed choose between a quicker or a safer attack.”

He glanced at the camp over his shoulder then, as the soldiers were gathering in orderly ranks with quiet, well-trained efficiency. He had a hint of a fond smile for them, and I read in his dark eyes the familiar bond that unites every good general and his troops when they have had their share of battlefields.

  
  
The Marshal he could have been. _The fighter he has become. _

When he turned back to me, it was to whisper in a lower tone.

“We shouldn't dwell, no doubt, but I do think Nevers still can wait long enough for us to find a way to spare as many lives as we can.”

“And how do you s-suggest we d-do that?” Toiras challenged, gesturing wildly at the silhouette of the fort against the rising sun.

At that, Armand handed the map to me, pointing at a thin winding trail drawn in the woods upon the mountainside.

“I think this is a hunting path circling around the cliff and joining the fort by the rear.”

I narrowed my eyes at the messy document. The trail was there, but barely visible and with many a senseless detour. Following Richelieu's own train of thought, I too searched through the woods, looking for that pathway under the thick layer of snow.

I started walking around the camp, followed by Armand and my officers, suddenly seized by a strange, pleasing sensation, close to those I crave for while hunting. The silent concealed probing for tracks, following dogs sniffing the ground as if I was nothing more than one of them, exploring the wilderness for a whiff or a footprint.

We crawled in the forest wordlessly for close to one hour before I found the path, almost covered by snow and bramble, weaving through ancient trees, challenging us to follow him.

I let out a small cry of joy.

  
Mother has always been so convinced my days spent hunting were just a waste of time.

_'Why don't you hop outside and hunt some birds” she used to say. _

Well, look at me now.

“We'll never fit thirty thousand men through there!” Schomberg huffed.

“If they don't see us coming,” I breathed, looking up the hunting path with the smile of a war hound. “Thirty thousand men are barely needed.”

We took the fort with _four_ thousand, in little more than a day.

On foot, all of us, since no horse could cross the trickiest parts of the ancient pathway. On foot, with barely a few muskets and a small cannon for the gates. The risk was huge, the stakes were high, but my dear, brave French soldiers, they went through it laughing.

I ordered Armand to remain safe in the camp first, arguing that France couldn't afford to lose both of us, but of course, he begged me to let him come along.

“Please don't deny me of the honour of sharing this battle with you as any soldier of France would,” he said.

It was true, after all, that he wanted to be an army officer long before he was forced to take his vows. _Why is this man wearing black robes, _I thought that very first day at the Etats Généraux, _he should be on a horse, leading armies to the East._

The fact that he gently grabbed my sleeve while pleading his case helped, perhaps a little.

I let him walk with me on the narrow path.

Though definitely more gifted for strategy than for actual sword fight, he stood by me until the moment the Captain of the fort ordered surrender and hadn't been seen taking one step back. I think he noticed, though, that many men, including myself, instinctively held their ground around him to fend off the most dangerous opponents, and shield him from gunfire.

He didn't speak about it in the evening of the next day back in the camp, but as I distributed my thanks and congratulations to the bravest soldiers of the attack, he insisted not to come first.

We sealed our victories by treaties in less than a week, and I ordered the troops to march towards Casal.

Spring had come early to Italy this year, and generous sunlight was already bathing the riverside of the Po, blessing olive trees with thick buds, encouraging the soldiers, nourishing their hopes. The lands of Montferrat, truly, were magnificent, in radiant hills covered with grapevine, or in small villages protected by the frozen crown of the Alps. All the colours were brighter there, untarnished and loud, and I decided I liked the South very much.

While on a stopover camp near Cavagnole, we stared, surprised, at the Count of Verrue coming back to us with an escort of twelve men, his doublet adorned with golden trim, his horse covered with white brocade. Despite this new decorum clearly showing that our approach was being taken very seriously, he wasn't welcomed, I fear, with any more respect than in Suse.

Charles-Emmanuel was sending him once more to plead for Casal, offering pretty much anything from good marriage for my already married sister to intricate – and unprofitable- trade agreements, or half a million livres in gold he most likely didn't have. Armand didn't laugh. Truth be told, he didn't even stand up from his chair, playing distractedly with a small boat made of vine roots that he found on the shore, no doubt left there by children from the nearest town.

The second dismissing of the poor Count de Verrue once more fell on to me. I sent him back with the official announcement of my army's arrival in Casal for the next week but still made sure the man shared my dinner before he left. 

I made it to Casal right on time.

The City's fortifications were among the most impressive I had ever seen outside of France. Almost enough to compare to the circles of Hell Armand had built around La Rochelle. The City and her Citadel were surrounded by two levels of star-shaped ramparts, the most advanced form of city defence in Europe. Inside, Cathedrals and Churches were rivalling in wonders under the bright April sun.

I had never realised how stern La Rochelle looked until I saw shining, colourful, crystalline Casal, framed by ardent southern skies and the smell of rhododendrons.

One glance was enough to understand how the Duke of Nevers, alone but for only two regiments of a thousand men, had been able to stand a siege of twenty thousand for more than four months. Casal was ideally placed along the Po, on rich, fertile grounds at the crossroads of trading routes.

I wanted that city the minute I laid my eyes upon it, and the battle promised to be _glorious_.

  
Well, if I had found one single Spanish man standing there.

For as we came closer, we realised Spain and Savoy's men had abandoned the siege and left the City, obviously in a hurry. All that was left to greet us was a few empty barracks and smoking traces of campfires.

_The enemy had deserted. _

A low rumour of stupefaction and disappointment rose among the troops as we walked to the City gates in disbelief, passing through empty siege lines and unoccupied fields.

I threw a glance at Armand next to me. I knew that if this was some kind of trap, his anxious mind would be searching for it already. Indeed, he was torturing his thumb again, his narrowed eyes glancing around. Eventually, he argued that there was no sign of battle on the city walls, and no way to hide twenty thousand men in the scattered woods around the siege lines. After that, he pointed at the banners of France and Nevers flying high on the towers of Casal for me. This was no trick. The City was ours.

I turned around on my horse to throw a questioning look at my Generals. None of them had anything useful to say. Toiras even raised his hands in helplessness. I almost cursed, my confused joy tainted with sheer _thwarting. _

The gates opened wide for us, and we rode into Casal to the sound of music or hurrays from ten thousand soldiers and civilians inside, all perfectly unharmed. As I dismounted on the Grand Place, the Count of Nevers ran towards me with tears in his eyes, grabbing my hand with adoration, calling me the saviour of the City. He confirmed that the Spanish had left merely a few days earlier after de Verrue came back to them from our camp, no doubt with a terrifying tale of our effortless, unstoppable advances in Suse, and our nonchalant certainty about our future victory. The enemy had departed without a letter, without a word, without an emissary left behind to pass a single message.

If the fighter in me was already trembling in disappointment, I felt the diplomat in Armand quickly join him in frustration.

Here we are by now, in that City barely damaged by four months of siege, where Nevers effortlessly managed to give shelter and food to my whole army.

If wealthy, generous Casal hadn't seduced me already, now she definitely has.

I feel grateful for the easy glory, and the legendary tale this war is soon going to become, but deep in my guts, the hunger remains unquenched. I came here to hunt, I came here to _fight_, and I won’t be satisfied with victory served on a silver plate.

Night has fallen upon the Citadel, and I find myself sitting at a banquet celebrating a victory I hardly earned. The music is pleasant, though a little too Spanish for my tastes, but while my Generals are welcoming the party rather loudly, my own hands are shaking with repressed energy, and instead of enjoying food and wine, I end up grabbing Armand by the sleeve in the late evening hours to drag him to a quieter room next to the Main Hall.

It looks like a private chapel, delicately ornate, but very small, isolated from the voices and noise, barely pulled out of the dark by two massive altar candles. I slam the door shut behind us, and to his confused, panicked face I simply hiss through clenched teeth.

“I can’t go back to Paris like this.”

If I can see his panic fading, somehow, his confusion only doubles.

“Your Majesty?” He breathes, leaning slightly towards me, searching my face for madness no doubt.

I huff, frustrated, and start pacing around the small altar, blind and uncaring for the masterly painted Resurrection above our heads. I gesture to the walls around, trying to make him understand my irritation.

“I have thirty-five thousand men here” I spit, “armed and ready, their spirits raised by the passage of Suse, spurred, energised, famished for war – ”

I stop dead because though the chapel is almost completely dark, I’m bloody sure he just _smiled_.

“What?” I grunt.

He gently lifts his hands, shaking his head, speaking in his most soothing voice.

“Nothing, Your Majesty. As for the men you’re describing, I was only counting thirty-five thousand and _one_.”

_You - _

_How dare you mock me, filthy beast? _

I am about to grab his collar and shout, but as I stride close, I read nothing but fond understanding in his wide eyes, and anger once more dissolves in my guts. My march towards him dies a few inches from his chest, with my eyes averted in mild embarrassment.

“My point is,” I sigh, “what did we battle exactly? A small mountain fort with half a regiment inside? We gathered that army for more, _much more_ than this.”

A short moment of silence passes by, where I rub my hands together just to keep them from shaking.

“There must be more than this.” I let out, distressed.

And turning to him as I have done all those years, all this time, for every need left unfulfilled, I command with my hand brushing his shoulder.

“Armand, you _have_ to give me more than this.”

He doesn’t move, not immediately. His eyes lose themselves on the altar, no doubt much more sensitive to the beauty of the painting there that I will ever be, and I am sure that distance growing in his dark stare is nothing but the gearwheels of his mind as he weighs his options, cautious, clever, subtle.

Eventually, he bites his lips and fumbles inside his sleeves for a while. He pulls out a small crumpled note that he unfolds with deft fingers. Joseph’s writing. _For God’s sake, we’re eight hundred miles away from Paris, when and how did he receive this? _

I shake my head. There are things about that man I’m not sure I want to know.

“Joseph has been delivered news from Monsieur de Condé.” He explains. “It seems the Huguenot contestation is organising itself around the Duke of Rohan and quickly slipping out of the Prince's control. Rohan nourishes the ambition of a Protestant republic within France itself, with Privas as capital.”

Bloody hell. Rohan is a pile of dirt in a black coat.

A Huguenot Republic, ha! _I’d like to see him try. _

Richelieu quietly folds back the note and slips it into his sleeve, catching my eyes with a sly, devious glint in his own.

“Now” he muses, “if Privas happened to be …_reclaimed_ by the Crown by a show of force, with Rohan gone, the Cévennes and Montauban would fall easily. It could allow Your Majesty to impose a definite Edict meant to eradicate all Huguenot political perspective in the south, and I don’t think Your Majesty could hope to return to Paris with victories of more long-lasting, _significant _consequence than those that would irremediably follow.”

  
I stare at him in realisation for a whole minute, my breath shortened, my mind dizzy.

“Peace between Huguenots and Catholics.” I exhale. “_Nation-wide_ peace.”

He nods, his smug pride barely concealed by a veil of poised grace.

“Casal was a much more urgent matter,” he whispers with a faint smile, “and I originally intended to estimate what could be done about Privas afterwards, according to the state of our remaining forces, but it seems this particular battle is leaving us with an army intact and fully supplied. Wouldn’t it be impious, Your Majesty, to deny the hand God himself is lending us?”

I don’t reply. 

I don’t think I need to.

I grab his face and kiss his mouth, rough, wet, messy, trapping him between my chest and the nearest wall as I have many times before. I groan as I sense the touch of his tongue upon mine again, _God, the warmth of him will save my life._

Those lighter robes he takes with him in times of war let me feel every bump and every crevice of his skin as I crush him against the smooth surface. _God, I want everything_. The sharp ribs on his sides, his smooth, supple stomach below. His hips, narrow and curved, his thighs, silky and firm. Bathing in the sensations of him at last, I bite on his neck in drunken delight and yet, he still cries out with more fear than pleasure.

_I don't like that at all. _

I harshly force his head to the side and lick a slow path against his ear, turning that cry into a low, pleading whimper, _now that's more like it. _

I watch his hands gently crawl up my sides, _yes, do that_, but my own clothes are too thick for me to feel them. I grunt in frustration, fumbling to untie the knots that keep my doublet closed, but instead of helping, his thin fingers wrap around my wrists as he breathes against my cheek, “Your Majesty, _please, _not here.”

I curse, loud and threatening, _don't you **dare**, Armand, don't you dare stop me now._

I grip one of his hands, twist it downwards and press it tight between my legs. He gasps, his eyes darkening, and the sight of him instinctively licking his lips as he feels me hardening against his palm is almost enough to drive me mad.

He wants to speak again. Since I am sure I won't like what he has to say, I just give a slow thrust forward, rubbing myself against his hand, and shuddering in sheer lust as I growl around his mouth.

“Three months, Armand. We've been marching together for _three months_. Every day, every night, both of us within arm's reach from dusk to dawn. God, since I never stripped you of the title of Generalissime, war protocol even makes you _sleep_ in my own _tent_.”

Another thrust. I'm fully hard now, already throbbing, and though I hear him wheezing in alarm, I'm too hungry to care.

“You feel that?” I rasp. “That's how I've been for you every bloody night since we left the Louvre, and more than a few nights before that. Yet, every time I wanted to lay a finger on you, there was nothing but thin sheets of fabric between us and thirty-five thousand soldiers, and I have shown myself patient. But for this night, we're in solid stone walls, and I swear to God, Armand, _I am fed up with being reasonable_.”

His ragged breaths against my lips are delicacies to me, and I grin in triumph because though he may be frowning, he still doesn't make a move to break free. His eyes are hooked on mine, lost and glassy, dark embers burning.

He takes a few seconds to kiss the corner of my mouth, and his fingertips against my pants dare a subtle, caressing circle. I cry out, victorious.

But he suddenly braces himself and talks, oh, _bloody Hell, how can that man be both raging mad, and unbearably rational? _

“Your Majesty, I beg of you.” He pleads, darting an anguished glance towards the door. “The Duke of Nevers and your whole general staff have seen us disappearing through that door half an hour ago and no matter if they think it was for war advice or evening prayers, it won't be long before they come looking for us.”

Gently, timidly, he unlocks his hand from my own, and his fingers leave my groin to retreat to a safer place on my elbow.

“_Please_ understand.” He exhales. “I only think of you.”

He's not lying.

And it’s only because I know he's not lying that I slowly close my eyes, let our foreheads touch, and take some time to breathe. He's right, _of course, he's right,_ isn't he always?

We're at war after all.

I came in here to ask him for it, and he gave me a glorious battle to come. _Don't I owe him some restraint? _Everything I need, after all, my Red Beast always gave. Even if what I need is not always what I _want_.

After a while, I lay a furtive kiss on his cheek and take two steps back, wincing in genuine pain as my skin screeches at the loss of his warmth. He himself doesn't look any better, leaning against the wall more than standing next to it, and somehow the sight is reassuring.

I rub my face in my hands, letting out a shaky sigh, and spin around to calm myself down.

Only to stop dead, staring at the altar. _Oh, God. _

I was ready to do _that_ in a bloody chapel.

How low have I sunk, how far have I gone?

_Where is the Christian king, and what has he become? _

I feel the nausea of self-disgust burning in my stomach, but I only turn my on heels, because I feel his fingers around mine again. He has composed himself, straightened his back and controlled his face, but he still lifts my hand to his lips with the softest smile that might have ever been granted to me by anyone.

“_Don't lose hope._” he breathes against my knuckles, and I wonder what he means by that.

We still exit the chapel in silence, and the number of stares visibly waiting for us confirms once more how right Armand was. They look like they were about to crash through the door and save us from some impending doom. I give out a few reassuring words, accept a glass of wine and smile at the praise I receive. I laboriously ignore Armand as he disappears by the main doors, and gesture at Toiras to come near. He does, cheerful as always. This man will lie laughing on his deathbed.

“I want the Generals in this room for a war council tomorrow first light,” I order him.

  
His bright trusty eyes widen, his mouth falling open for a second.

“Y-Your M-Majesty?” He tries, unsure. “I-Isn't the war over?”

I let a lopsided smile stretch my lips and, playful, I lean towards him to whisper, “Well, _this one_ is.”

And I leave him with that, amused by the confused frown on his virile face.

In the next two hours, I drink far too much.

I drink to the eight hundred miles between my mother and me, and to the fact that even she can't scream loud enough to be heard from here.

I drink to the rancour of my brother, fed with love and devotion while I had none, and yet just as filled with bitterness and rage as I am.

I drink to the empty belly of my Spanish wife, laying in the coldest place on Earth her bed is, writing to her dear family about the kind of selfish brute she surely thinks I am.

I drink to my own sins, and the absurdity of fate, denying me of every kind of love I had ever hoped for, except the shameful, ungodly, dizzying adoration I found in Armand. I drink to the years I spent fighting the curse of my own desires. I drink to the war I was never meant to win. I drink to my own damnation written in letters of anthracite. I drink to the flames of Hell crawling up his smooth white skin.

I drink to Armand, only Armand.

The Red Beast. _My Red Beast._

When I feel myself chuckling aloud without reason, I resolutely drop my glass on the table and excuse myself for the night. One of Nevers' valets leads me to the Duke's own room which, as per tradition, I am supposed to have. The valet tells me a bath has been prepared, and I must have muttered out loud how I love this bloody City.

The Citadel's main bedroom is imposing, yet sober.

The high windows offer a breath-taking view of the Citadel, the star-shaped walls, and the city below with her own set of defence ramparts. The skyline of the alps defies the night sky, like the open jaws of a giant screaming at the moon. The colours are louder here. None of them ever lie.

We're still in an ancient military castle, so I won't see any flowery wallpapers or gold-painted stucco here, and I’m more than fine with that. The walls of grey stone are bare, with thick tapestries hanging from the roof, featuring, of course, legendary battles of Mantoue. The room has been separated in two by a heavy curtain rapidly hooked between two opposite walls. On my side, the original bed and a steaming bathtub, a fine chemise, a tray of food.

On the other side, I suppose, Armand's.

The valet offers his assistance, but I dismiss him with a nod. I just remembered I enjoy being alone.

Once the butler tiptoes out, I shrug my clothes away and step into the hot water, groaning in pleasure. The sudden warmth makes me dizzy for a while. I really had a few glasses too many. 

I chuckle out loud again. I don't know why.

I clean myself in quick moves, wincing as the water around my old chemise quickly turns to muddy grey. The botched basin washes I've been having in war camps haven’t been the most efficient, I fear. I distractedly pass a hand through my hair and feel it tangled and stuck with dried mud, _oh, dear God it's even worse up there. _

I must have been looking like a wild boar for at least a month, but I'm the bloody King of France, and no one dared to tell me so.

Louis, the Boar.

I burst into laughter. _No idea why. _

I immerse myself fully in the water and try to clean my hair. A disgusting mixture of dirt and blood that isn't mine seeps into my eyes, and I gnarl in blind helplessness, _bloody hell, someone give me a comb, or a very sharp knife, I swear I'm going to - _

I hear something small being dragged on the floor, like a table, or a stool. I can't see a thing. Panicked, I try to rub dirty water away from my eyes and look for a dagger as the sound of ruffling silk surrounds me for a while, but before my vision clears, I only feel my hair being lifted away from my face by gentle, delicate fingers.

Armand.

I turn to him blinking. He's sitting there, on a small stool, wearing a plain nightshirt, his opened robes used as a dressing gown. He's sitting there, sober and clean, his hair hanging loose, his eyes peaceful. White nightshirt, silver hair, milky skin, and tender eyes, G_od, he almost looks like a bloody angel. _

Armand, the angel.

Louis, the Boar.

I snort ungracefully. He doesn't seem to mind.

He focuses on separating my hair from the mud of the road strand by strand, using his hands, his comb, and his goddamn saintly _patience_. The bloody perfection of his poise irritates me to no end, but I know I won't send him away for a thousand wars.

I might find, after all, something soothing in the slow, deft moves of his hands.

I might find, after all, something long-lost in the deference of his fingers.

Something I craved. _Something I never had._

He takes one whole hour to comb and clean my hair, and though we don't speak at all, we do talk plenty. In comfortable silence, we remind each other how safe our mutual presence has become. We let the faint sounds of our breaths be heard above the lapping of the water. I let myself flinch when he pulls at my hair a bit too harshly, and he lets himself apologise by a quick caress along my neck. For one whole hour, I feel a nameless surge of emotion clenching my throat, gripping my heart, and I search, frowning, for what it could be.

Only at the end of it all, as he stands up after a last bush into my hair, do I find in his fiery eyes, like a treasure lost in time, exactly what he's been giving to me.

Something soothing, something long-lost. _Something I think I never had. _

The soft gestures my mother never offered. That natural love she never felt.

Still silent, still smiling, he presents me with my clean shirt, and I step out of the bath like a man struck by lightning. I don't think he notices, but I can barely breathe, hazed by that single, earth-shattering thought.

Could this bright, passioned, inhuman creature give me every kind of love I need, even that moment of care I hoped for all my life? That unconditional, selfless love you only find in the arms of mothers, _or in the light of God. _

The impossible choice waiting for me in Paris, is it even a choice, after all?

_Is there even a choice? _

As he helps me into my shirt and quietly retreats behind the curtain to his side of the room, I still stare for a while, my heart hammering, and water dripping from my clean, combed hair. Everything I need, after all, my Red Beast always gave. Even if what I need is not always what I _want_.

Staggered, my thought whirling fast, I let myself fall on my bed, my eyes lost through the windows. Lying there panting, I witness in silence, my shock slowly replaced by the raw, unyielding lust that wine and distraction have only managed to repel for a while. 

Armand, my Armand, his boundless affection, his warmth, his skin, his voice, _I want more of that._

_I want everything. _

I get up in a growl and swiftly pull the curtain open.

  
  


He's lying there on his side in a smaller bed, his robes discarded, reading a pile of letters that seem to be financial accounts of the Court. His wide dark eyes look up at me, questioning at first, but as I step closer, he reads my face quite clearly and crawls backwards on his bed.

“Your Majesty...” he begs again, gesturing around us, and _I don't want to know he's right. _

But as he holds my gaze and inches further away, like it or not, I can't help seeing that he is.

Bassompierre is sleeping beyond that door right beside Armand's bed. I'm sure the valet I dismissed earlier is still standing behind the other. We're at war, eight hundred miles from home, stuck between Germany, Italy, and Spain. Anyone could barge in anytime for a checkup or an alarm, and in Casal we have no valid reason to lock our doors.

He's right, _of course, he's right,_ isn't he always?

Still, I am King of France, and he is my _property. It's been three months. I am not made of stone._

His warmth, his skin, his voice, _I want more of that._

I stand heaving for a minute, staring at his thin wrists, deafened by the sound of blood thumping in my ears. Fine. _Fine. _

To anyone coming in, we can't be seen anywhere else than on our beds, on each side of that damned curtain. Fine_. Fine. _

_But at least for this night we're in between solid walls, and thank God, right now they can't **hear** us at all. _

I step back to my own bed and slide under my covers, laying on my back, my head still turned to him. Reassured, he smiles weakly and gets up to close the curtain upon a short, polite goodnight.

“Don't even _think_ of that.” I hiss, and he stumbles back on his bed, biting his lips, his eyes held low, leaving the drapery untouched.

“Lie down,” I command. “As you were.”

He complies, blindly, without question, and the sight of it tears a low moan of pleasure out of my throat. Every time he obeys to me, how glorious, how kingly I feel. The world falls into place.

_My name has a meaning. _

He lies back in his bed on his side, facing me, and pulls his covers above him. He pushes his accounts aside with cautious fingers and stares up at me, silent, expectant. _Good. _

Never leaving his eyes, I kick my own blankets away, keeping only one thin bed sheet covering me up to my waist, so nothing much can be _seen_, but everything can be _outlined_ quite perfectly. Around us, the sounds of celebration are fading. The Alps are still devouring the clear night skies in silence, and on both our nightstands, two thin candles are flickering.

“If you _dare_ to look away” I growl, “I swear I'll get out of this bed and _make _you look back with my hand around your throat.”

His fingers instinctively clench upon his heart, but he still nods, watchful, assuaged. He’s not afraid of me, it's true. _Very good. _

I slide a hand under the sheet and watch his eyes widen in shock as I stroke myself a few slow, languid times. He parts his lips to talk, and I am sure I won't like what he has to say.

“_Quiet_,” I order.

His mouth falls shut.

I feel him tempted to glance around, the door, the window, but I forbid him to look away, and more than anything, _he only wants to obey me._

My Red Beast; quite tamed after all. I rumble in contentment.

His dark eyes remain fixed upon mine. I don't even have to summon specific thoughts at all, I just need to look at him, and I'm hard within a minute. The way his hair falls across his face in messy silver threads, the way his slender legs beneath his covers shift and twist in unease. The curve of his neck, the spot on his collarbone where I can make him scream every time I bite.

I let out a soft moan, feeling my cock twitching beneath my hand. He tries, I'm sure, to look only at my face, but from time to time his eyes can't help darting downwards and back. Every time he does, his cheeks take a deeper shade of pink, and I find that _enticing_.

I take my time, I give him something to watch. I let the thin sheet show him the hardness, the length of me, and how easily my pleasure is building up. His own hands don't leave his chest for a second, but I hear his sheets rustling, his breath hitching. He licks his lips once more, _God, yes. _

“Do that again.” I pant.

He does, slower, and the glint of moisture on his bottom lip make me quiver in need, oh, that mouth around my cock, warm, slick, _obscene. _I cry out, thrusting hard into my fist, my other hand flying to grab my pillow. He doesn't look away. He takes in every twitch, every move of mine, I know he does, _of course, he does_. I pump a few times, fast, hungry, and he starts whimpering, so delicate, so _eager_ that I have to pull my hand away or it'll be over too fast.

I lie, out of breath, watching him with blurry eyes, my palm suspended an inch above my throbbing shaft. He still doesn't touch himself, and the truth is, I don't think he needs to. That's how he is, my dear Armand, that's the sickness he has, he feels too much.

He feels _everything_ far, far too much.

He's just as breathless as I am, his eyes black and glassy, and as I take myself in my fist again, my hips bucking up on their own will, he cries out louder than I do. One of his hands does leave his heart, but to crawl to his mouth, and this gorgeous devil starts licking his two middle fingers with a wet dexterous tongue, _oh, Christ!_

“Yes!” I moan, ecstatic.

He swallows his fingers whole, his eyes boring into mine. My bed creaks. I cry out with every breath, every thrust of my hips, raw pleasure burning my skin, my eyes filled with him even though we do not touch.

“Armand -” I call, desperate, white bliss crawling up my groin, my fist moving in short, broken twitches.

He doesn't look away. His fingers slide in and out of his mouth, matching my fantasy, and I see his own hips swaying slightly under his covers to the same slow, maddening rhythm.

“_Armand, _I -”

“Mon Roi.” He just breathes around his fingers, and that pure, ardent_ love_ in his voice again is more than I can stand.

I throw my head back and come, gasping, but soundless. I have no air left to use. I come in long, painful spasms, drenching my hand, tearing the pillowcase. I come, my feet scraping the bed, mouthing his name one last time. Despite it all, I still keep my eyes open, because, God, the beauty he is, high with pleasure, _about to fall. _He devours the sight of me for five more seconds, then his free hand rushes between his legs, above the sheets. His hips buck against it once, twice, and he finally closes his eyes, muffling his scream by biting harshly in his thumb. His thin frame shudders and jolts for a while, softs cries of bliss dying against his hand, then he softly forces his eyes open again, and they're the brightest thing I ever owned.

We both lie like that, catching our breaths, and as he smiles at the mess we've made, I dismiss the certainty that I will never be able to live without him because I have no idea how to deal with it.

Wincing, I unclench my fingers from my pillow and search for my old wet chemise lying on the floor somewhere. I wipe my soaked hand on it and offer it to him. The cloth is already in a pitiful state, stained and unstitched at the sides, but he still refuses to touch it with dirty hands, moving away from it in horror to fetch a basin of his own. I feel, once more, like I am to his eyes higher than man. Higher than God.

That's why, I suppose, I don't think I can afford the weakness to speak about that warm, glowing feeling in my heart. That earth-shattering thought of mine.

Is there even a choice, after all?

_Is there even a choice? _


	3. January the 30th 1630, Castle of Pierre Encise, Lyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut : blowjob, frottage / Violence : death, abuse, mental illness

The next morning, I exposed our brand new plan for Privas to my Officers. Richelieu stood five inches behind me, providing numbers and details, but gladly letting me take the credit for it all, as he always does when the measure taken is a popular one.

He only takes the blame for the less crowd-pleasing decisions, to shield me from the people’s discontentment, and to my sheer regret, it happens more often than not. He would have seemed less of a puppet master, maybe, if fate hadn’t forced us to take more of those unwelcome measures than we wished to.

I couldn't leave magnificent Casal to Nevers' meagre regiment once more, so I left Toiras there with three thousand men and four hundred horses, trusting him to defend the City just as well as he did for the Isle of Ré.

Toiras looked around with mixed feelings, delighted to stay in this impregnable paradise, but reluctant to let the others vanquish Privas without him. I reassured dear Jean with the promise of returning with replacements as soon as France was granted religious peace at last.

I ordered the others to set the army in motion. We marched all the way over the Alps for the second time that year with much more ease, I must admit, as the lands this time were conquered ones, and springtime had pushed the snow far above the Pas de Suse.

We marched straight to the heart of Huguenot territory, scaring most of the smaller riots from our path. Indeed, a mighty sight we were, Armand and I riding side by side, at the head of an endless string of armed men marching in quiet, disciplined order. A true French army at last, as equipped and trained as every powerful military state is expected to have.

History is being made.

_My dreams becoming true._

With each stopover camp, a brief council was held before dinner, and between bedtime and the first lights of dawn, I'm proud to say that I managed to steal enough from Armand's mouth and skin to keep my _every need_ fulfilled, despite those walls of thin fabric.

I was at war, glowing with an aura of legend, riding forward with my Red Beast at my side, his devilish mind and subtle elegance more than ever _at my service_.

I was proud, I was fierce, I was unstoppable.

I was as content as I don't think I had ever been before, that particular warmth firmly settled around my heart by then, like springtime sunlight igniting the depths of the frozen earth.

Was there even a choice? _Had there ever been? _

We joined the Condé's troops in front of Privas on the 14th of May. Condé was, as Armand always said, a warlike creature. Well, that word was gentle. The man was a _savage beast_, no more. Very efficient in battle, indeed, at least as long as the strategy involved was basic enough for his limited wits, but Condé was barely manageable otherwise.

Setting camp around Privas, Armand and I organised a perfect battle, listing the City rampart's weakest points, positioning regiments, aligning cannons, ballista and muskets. We gave Condé minor tasks or simple instructions and thought ourselves to be safe that way.

How wrong. _How wrong. _

If the taking of Privas went just as planned right until the end, we didn't calculate the actions Condé would take _afterwards_. We didn't think of giving him any instructions about that, and really, how could we?

Every soldier knows, from the Generalissime to the lowest of footmen, that once the leader of the enemy troops has surrendered, we cease fire, pick up the fallen, and wait for diplomats to take their seats and write a bloody treaty. That's how war is done in civilised lands, for God's sake.

Rohan, defeated but still valiant after the battle, asked for one night to choose his advisors before he'd start the peace negotiations with Richelieu, and I gladly granted it to him. We all went back to our places, most of my army in camp outside the ramparts, my general staff, sixty musketeers and I occupying the city castle.

But while we slept, this brute Condé and his eight hundred men, drunk as peasants and yelling bawdy songs, suddenly thought it amusing to start pillaging through the City, slaughtering everyone with a protestant's black hat. Men, women, _children. _

We were woken in the middle of the night by gunfire and anguished screams. When Bassompierre barged in to tell us what was happening, I sent him to gather a regiment of our own and put an end to this outrage, and while he did that, Richelieu bravely followed me into the streets.

_My poor Armand, he didn’t go far. _

The first thing he stumbled upon on the very stairs of the castle, was the dead body of a little girl for four at most, and unexpectedly, though I was sure he had seen much worse in the past year only, he broke down in a heartbeat.

He stared at her bloodied little face for a few seconds, then took a sharp wheezing breath and collapsed on his knees. Shaking with sorrow, his cheeks drenched in tears, he gathered the girl in his arms with the tenderness of a mother and crawled back up the stairs sobbing.

I had seen panic and madness collide in his wide eyes often enough, but truly, _never that fast_. He hugged the girl against his heart, rocking her gently and muttering broken prayers for her alone.  
  
Before I realised it, his sickness of the mind engulfed him, and he was lost to the world.

I tried to talk to him, but his stunned eyes were blind to anything other than his nightmares. Behind my back, the massacre was spreading and time was running short. I ordered two Musketeers to drag him back inside and keep him safe there. With that, I ran to the City with fifty other men.

Bassompierre joined me soon after with a thousand more, and mayhem ceased eventually, but by the time every single one of Condé's wild dogs was arrested and locked up, Privas was hardly more than a graveyard.

I realised this was the way Condé had been '_controlling_' most of the riots in the South, and I was positively furious. The barbarian had served my purposes long enough for me to renounce the _lettre de Cachet_, but I sent him back to his lands for a 'well-deserved rest” all the same, with no intention to call on his service ever again.

I stayed in the City to help my men tend to the wounded and gather the dead, but soon enough, my concern forced me back to the castle. I found Armand in our bedroom, his robes still glued with the girl's blood, curled on the floor with his unblinking stare lost in the distance.

The Musketeers told me they had to pry the dead child out of his hands with force, and that he had been sitting there ever since, without a word, without a twitch. I thanked them both and sent them off.

I circled around him for a while, but if I think he noticed my presence, he was too far lost to react.

I had no idea what to do, and I was still boiling with rage at the useless slaughter I should have prevented. I was wary of own my anger, I had learned my lesson well, so I simply laid down a glass of wine next to him while I sat on my bed, not even looking at his face. I gave him time, I suppose, to repair his seawall, to silence his own storm. He had always managed to do it somehow. I just had to wait.

And wait, I did. I don't know for how long. I think I was almost asleep when I heard his voice, dull but steady, rising from the floor where he was still sitting hugging his own legs.

“We have to use this.” He said, and I blinked awake, asking him what he meant.

He gestured at the windows, at the City outside, with shaking hands covered by the drying blood of that nameless child.

“This carnage.” He added. “It becomes worse if it serves no purpose. It's unbearable. We have to give it meaning.”

And then, quietly, with a mechanical voice that was barely his, he started to lay out for me one of the most devilish schemes of propaganda he ever came up with.

He told me he’d make sure to spread the tale that the Huguenots of Privas denied the legitimacy of the Crown, claiming their will to undo the State and join the enemies of France. What happened to the City will be set as an example, as it would erase the fact that one of my Officers disobeyed my orders below the feet of my very bed. With that version spreading ahead through Richelieu's usual hired gazettes, my army would march on the lands of Cévennes and Montauban, where sheer terror among the Protestants would make an easy victory more than likely for us.

He softly let his head rest against the wall, and I watched, fascinated, a ray of moonlight passing on his cheeks, showing painful lines of reddened skin, _God, how he must have cried. _

“Meanwhile, here in Privas,” he went on, “a definite treaty must be signed by Rohan while he's still in shock. All Huguenot fortresses, including this one, should be destroyed to the last stone. The ramparts of every Protestant city of any significance should be brought to the ground. No Huguenot political party should be allowed to emerge ever again, and their trade should be submitted to the State's supervision. There has to be a peace Edict for sure, but a strict one.”

I might have realised at this point, that though he had different ways to express it, he was just as resolved as I was to prevent echoes of the Saint Bartholomew night, such as this one was, to ever happen again.

“I'll write a draft for Your Majesty,” he said, dreamy maybe, or just tired, “but you will have to make Rohan sign it in my absence. “

I frowned, leaning closer to him.

“Wait...” I hissed. “In your _absence?_”

For the first time, he turned his head to me. His eyes were damaged, circled in black and red, and he needed sleep so hard it hurt just to look at him, but all traces of madness had gone from his stare, leaving it clear, patient and self-assured.

“The Cévennes and Montauban have to fall fast.” He stated. “Our truth must be printed out now if we want it to be the only one remembered by all, and the army shouldn't march more than a few days behind the spreading news. This cannot wait until the Edict is signed. We _must_ part ways.”

Without a thought, I threw myself down the bed and crouched next to him, lifting his chin with a hand and spitting my words at his face.

“Wait a minute, sly beast, _I _would sit around negotiating treaties while _you_ conquer cities? Why the hell would I stay here doing your bloody work while you ride to war and do mine?”

He didn't even flinch.

His sad, exhausted eyes looked straight into mine, and he spoke plain and clear, his hands gently retreating to his heart as the only sign of his docility.

“Because this Edict will forge History much more than those easy, secondary battles.” He said. “It will settle the authority of Your Majesty's reign to frontiers never dreamed of, and rid France of the peril of civil war for years to come. I cannot do that in your name, this landmark of the century has to be written and signed by your hand. It's not a question of personal pride, I swear to you, but only a question of legacy.”

He wasn't lying.

And because I knew he wasn't even bloody _lying, _I slowly closed my eyes, let our foreheads touch, and took some time to breathe. He was right, of course, he was right.

  
  
_Isn't he always?_

  
My hand on his chin shifted to cup his cheek, and I inspected his gaunt face, his blemished eyes, his trembling hands. Of his bravery, I never doubted, and his wits I trusted with my life, but dear God, how _unstable _he was.

“I won't send you to war alone in this state.” I sighed.

“I am fine, Your Majesty.”

I think I simply laughed. Not to mock him, not really. It was something fond instead, something bitter, something _desperate_.

“You're insane, Armand,” I told him, leaning towards him so he could understand I didn't use that word lightly.

He understood. He didn't try to deny it.

He never let out one word about it, but he wasn't blind to his inner storm. He was perfectly aware of the curse in his family, the sickness in his blood. He had seen how high he could rise, how low he could fall. He knew the name of his enemy within.

He didn't sweeten the truth, not for me. No propaganda, no politics, no lies. He just wrapped his soiled hands around mine and poured all of his inhuman resolve into his words as he hammered out, “Not enough to fail you.”

After a long, heavy silence filled with our short breaths and the rusting of silk as he shivered, I remember I nodded, and he thanked me with a kiss to each of my hands, _yes_, this is how we ruled the country by then. _This was both of us, and the ballet we danced. _

He took three days to write his draft, and three more to plan the safest route for the army.

Well. _His army. _

  
In the last war council before his departure, he stated, feigning nonchalance, that he needed one General to come with him. He kept his eyes carefully fixed on the map he was holding as he spoke because though he knew he had earned the Officers' respect, following the Red Snake alone to war was something else entirely.

He didn't have to wait for more than five seconds. Bassompierre, without a hint of doubt in his narrow eyes, stepped forward and clapped his arm, speaking over his shoulder for the other Officers around.

“No one moves, Gentlemen.” He said. “This honour is mine and mine alone.”

The radiant look on Armand's face as he looked up at his brand new First Officer comforted me much more than it should have.

  
One week after, he was gone to the Cévennes with twenty thousand of my men.

Well. _His men. _

I watched him ride away from the windows of the Main Hall, diplomats already calling me back to the negotiations. Half an hour of hungry kissing and growled promises were all I had managed to win over our race against time before he left, _and God, I was cold. _

I vaguely wondered before I went back to the Edict if the agonising pain of having his warmth pulled away from me would ever stop growing worse _each and_ _every time_.

The Edict was signed as June began to bloom in the sun-bathed lands of the South. Every Protestant stronghold in France was to be inescapably destroyed, without exception or compromise. Everywhere in the Kingdom, all political forces of the Huguenots were smothered to death, and their wealth carefully watched.

With the cries of widows and orphans still heard everywhere in the City, and blood being barely washed off the cobblestones of his own house, Rohan accepted everything, almost thankful to sign the document.

If the Edict annihilated all hope of an organised Huguenot contestation in the future, it still allowed freedom of cult to every Protestant family in France, restoring destroyed Temples, and even granting State subvention to the few most important ones, including Privas.

  
The Protestants were stripped naked with a pistol to their temple, but they were _forgiven_.

Strict, no doubt, but an Edict of Peace nevertheless.

I knew as I applied my own signature next to Rohan's how the idea of forgiveness would send Mother and her party of short-sighted bigots to new fits of outraged fury, but I didn't care. The building of my dream couldn't be tainted by lower-thinking minds. 

They called it the Edict of Grace.

Well, to be honest, Richelieu had insisted it be called that.

  
A question of legacy, he said.

  
Hadn't it been his life purpose all along?

Dreams getting closer.

History being written.

_Future shining bright on his old map of Europe. _

In the week that followed, Rohan exiled himself to Venice with what was left of his family.

I dismissed the troops, rewarded my Officers with titles and gold, and rode back to Paris as the most generous of all conquerors. I arrived at the Louvre in July, taking the full blow of my mother's rage. She was by then dragging behind her ample bottom a filthy string of followers, among which I found that useless priest Bérulle, and to my shocked dismay, _General Marillac. _

I felt in my guts the sharp pain of betrayal, and I glared at him showing teeth, clenching fists.

  
If it didn't last long, it was only because I was quickly handed a letter from Armand. I didn't even wonder how he knew better than I did when exactly I’d be in Paris. I trusted him to keep his secret eyes and ears on me in ways I couldn't possibly understand.

The letter was detailed, and his writing was steady enough. Mother was yelling in my ears, but I smiled softly all the same.

  
It said that the cities of the Cévennes had fallen after three very orderly battles, the losses on our side below any estimated minimum. Richelieu would let the troops rest for two days, and march to Montauban afterwards.

He had added a few lines wishing me my own rest, and ‘_as much as possible_’, quiet times with my family. I chuckled as I almost heard his sarcastic, yet anxious voice behind those words.

  
I checked, then, if he had still thickened his first name. _He had. _

Seeing my grin wouldn't fade that day, Mother gradually stopped shouting and stormed out of the room. I ordered the compulsory celebration for my Officers to be organised without a thought for her _opinion_.

With De Toiras still guarding Casal, and Bassompierre fighting with Richelieu in Montauban, all I had left to congratulate were Schomberg and Treville, but mother still found a way to spoil the evening with her house-made scandal, blatantly refusing to acknowledge any of them, and covering Marillac with praise instead, _bloody Marillac, the only one of my Generals who never left Paris in the first place. _

Marillac, it seemed, had the only advantage of having unquestioningly taken her side about pretty much everything, for a whole set of very shiny reasons he was proudly wearing around his neck.

The man, it's true, always had an ungodly love for money.

On that same celebration night, emboldened by the absence of the Red Devil, Mother yelled her lungs out in endless bile against Richelieu again, oblivious to the absurdity of spitting on the name of the man I had just described as a devoted servant risking his life for the Crown as we spoke.

Treville only grunted, waving her speech away as he would an annoying fly or a nasty smell.

Schomberg, on the other hand, still had the energy of war buzzing in his veins, and muttered loud enough that he had seen with his own eyes the “traitorous snake” she was speaking of crying in anguish for the fallen soldiers of France.

“Oh trust me, General” Mother hissed with a dark, _dark_ glare in my direction. “Richelieu cries only when it serves his own purposes.”

It was then, I think, that I realised most of the pain, the helplessness and indecision had gone from my chest. What was left there was nothing more than burning, nagging rage and vague anguish. I asked her to drop the subject with a blank voice I didn't expect from myself, so she couldn't notice that somewhere under the mighty jaws of the Alps, any trace of doubt in my mind had vanished and gone.

Between Armand and what is left of my mother, _there had never been a choice. _

Armand wrote to me every four days with clockwork regularity until the day before the battle of Montauban. After that, I had no word from him for a whole week, and I was so worried I could barely focus on anything else than hunting and yelling at courtiers.

On July the 20th, by a miracle or sorcery I'll never know, Joseph himself appeared out of thin air in the Louvre again to tell me that Montauban, cursed, rebellious Montauban had fallen for good, with a thousand casualties to deplore.

He fell silent after that as if this was all he had to report. I threw him a pointed look, but he didn't spit out a single word about Armand.

Roaring, I grabbed the monk's collar, hauling him off his feet and hissing my questions straight at his pale, shocked face.

With that, coughing and twisting, he reluctantly confessed His Eminence had crumbled in sickness the moment the battle was over. Richelieu, just like in La Rochelle, had maintained inhuman strength for months, heartening the troops and controlling everything, neglecting food or rest until he collapsed, as it always happens when _no man he obeys is there to keep him in line. _

By that, Joseph meant if I understood the pointed look he was giving me well enough, the _only _man he obeys.

I let go of the black robes in mumbled apologies.

I wasn't surprised, _why the Hell would I have been? _But I felt guilty, and that was upsetting.

I shouldn't have let Armand go to war on his own, _will I ever learn? _

I growled that Richelieu had to be brought back to Paris, where my physicians could take care of him, but the demented priest just shook his head.

“His Eminence himself thinks it safer for him to stay in Languedoc for a while,” He said. “He merely sent me here to deliver the news to Your Majesty and ... arrange a few documents of his.”

I wanted to know why on Earth Richelieu had to ask his_ master spy_ in person to put order to his _papers_, but the damned monk slid away like an eel again, keeping his words hermetic and his eyes on his shoes.

I learned a few hours later that The Cardinal de Bérulle, who by my mother's influence had grown dangerously averse to Richelieu, had died mysteriously a few days before, and that she and all her clique were very loudly accusing the Monster of Luçon to be his murderer.

Joseph wasn't here to put any papers in order. He was there to destroy evidence, nothing less, and while Richelieu's illness was undoubtedly true, it was still the most solid of all alibis.

After another week, mostly spent in Versailles hiding away from Mother and her outraged howling for justice, I started receiving regular letters again, giving me reassuring news of his health, and the definite peace reigning in the South.

His handwriting steadily went back from hazy to organised, his sentences from automatic to intricate. At some point, I realised his words for me were growing devoted, vibrant, almost dangerous in their raw adoration, and some letters I burned just to be safe.

But every time I insisted for him to come back to Paris, he gently dodged the issue, his terror of my mother growing palpable even through the curves of his capitals.

Again, _once more_, I tamed my impatience.

I caged my own anger.

But by the first days of September, I was flat-out shaking with exasperation, furious to see him denying me of his presence for the sake of my mother's _temper_.

My life in the Louvre had grown a worse kind of Hell every day, Mother's puppets filling every room with their stench and filth, every word spoken at Court motivated by lust or money. The only men I trusted were war generals, and there wasn't war enough to justify my spending time with them. I saw my Council being slowly drowned under a flood of trivial intrigue, and some days, it felt like the ghost of Concini was still crawling up the hallways.

The walks to the Queen's apartments turned sadder every night as the memories of Armand grew dull and overused, and my own bed, despite the warmth of summertime, became as cold as a stone bench.

I felt withering inside. _I felt lonely again. _

The distractions that used to help long ago, before that man came into my life, weren't working anymore. Everything had changed, in me, in him. The _need_ I had for that man, howling in my guts in every waking hour of my day, was both a torture and a fright.

Around the 15th, I couldn't stand this emptiness anymore. I wrote him a short, aggressive note, speaking of duty and service, summoning him to Court without delay or excuses, threatening him with humiliation very clearly, and with real pain_ implicitly_.

That beast was my _servant_. He should have been sleeping at the feet of my bed, begging for a look, craving for a word.

I had the divine right to see my Minister _whenever I bloody well pleased. _

I was folding the note in two when Joseph barged into my office unannounced, his focused stare defying me to scorn him, holding his chin high just the way Richelieu did.

Birds of a feather, those two. Carved in the same stone.

Maybe that's why I have always been so lenient with that senseless priest. He has so much, _so much_ of Armand in him.

He greeted me with barely more than a nod once more, laying down a coded letter from the Cardinal on my desk, gesturing vaguely above it to tell me there was no point in translating anything, he had done the job already.

“The Emperor Ferdinand's troops have invaded Mantoue.” He grumbled, worried. “Three German battalions have joined Spanish forces to besiege Casal again. Charles-Emmanuel of Savoy has let everyone pass on his lands with _delight_, claiming he has never signed any treaty about Casal in the first place. Toiras' regiment is holding just fine, as expected, but Savoy's arrogance remains an insult to the State.”

I didn't reply. I leaned back in my chair, gazing at the coded words, feeling a sudden rush of tiredness suffocate me. Dear God, could it be possible to maintain a few weeks of peace in this troubled, confused world? How could I build a solid state on such _quicksand_?

But still.

I couldn't let Toiras, the best Marshal of my army, undefended in Casal.

My promises are sacred, my alliances everlasting.

War.  
_This meant war again._

  
  
The hunt, the battle, the glories.

His shadow next to mine.

  
His devilish mind and subtle elegance, at my service, once more.

Before I knew it, there was a sly, ravenous smile blooming back on my mouth.

“Summon the Generals” I threw at Joseph. “Arrange the gathering of the army. We'll join Richelieu's forces in Lyon by the end of the month and march over the Alps once more, and this time _I swear_, I'll tear a treaty out of Charles-Emmanuel's cold, dying hands.”

  
The monk blinked in surprise for a while, then slowly bowed down for me again, _ha_, now that was a good omen. Besides, he might have looked passably impressed for a second there. I still sent him to work with a flicker of my hand.

  
Since he had _so much_ of Armand in him, he could take over his job for a while, couldn't he?

Standing up to run for my weapons, I brushed past the note I was sending to the Red Beast. Frowning, I unfolded it quickly, read again what I had written, and hissed in horror as I recognised the resilient, stubborn anger that I swore I would control someday.

  
I threw the paper in the hearth with an annoyed shrug.

*** 

Lazily slumped into a chair, nursing a fine Bordeaux, I now watch him make preparations to receive the emissary from the Vatican with careful, soundless gestures.

I hadn't noticed, but his hair is a bit longer now. Men of the Church aren't supposed to indulge themselves into the vanity of letting their hair grow as civilians can, but since he has been more of a soldier than a Cardinal these last three years, I suppose he's entitled to some form of compromise.

It grazes his shoulders in silver light by now as he leans down to the documents stacked on the massive oak desk, and I like that sight very much.

I take a sip of my wine, fighting the urge to order him to turn around and let me watch the way his robes clinch his slim waist from the back, satisfied by the certitude that if I did, he pliantly would anyways.

He passes a pensive hand on his mouth as he reads through a few notes of his, and I smile because his lips are still sore, I can see it by the subtle flinch of his brow.

Now I think about it, he looks sore everywhere.

_I am proud of my work. _

He was waiting for me in the courtyard of the Castle of Pierre Encise, that stronghold in Lyon that must have seen the Dark Ages and beyond. The prospect of spending time in this thick, graceless fortress standing on a rocky outcrop above the Rhône wasn't appealing to me, but Armand's tall red frame, hands joined on his heart as he watched me set foot on the ground was enough to redeem each and every one of these uneven cobblestones.

We reviewed his twenty thousand men and my own ten thousand together while Bassompierre, Treville, and Schomberg were clapping each other's backs in roaring joy. His soldiers looked tired, but resolute all the same, smiling and cheering as I greeted them.

To be honest, I can't quite say I didn't feel fatigued at all, and though Armand's eyes were still alight with wit and eagerness, those last months had taken their tolls on all of us for sure.

Dinner was served in that pointless castle then, in rooms with windows so small they had to light candelabras inside at midday. Nothing was pleasing indeed in those sandstone walls, those worn-out tapestries, or this thick smell of dust and mould filling the tablecloths, the water, the food, but Pierre Encise had one, only one blessing. The main bedroom had walls and doors thick enough to hold months of _catapulting, _and Lyon was in loyal, safe French land. So, once the first war council with the complete general staff ended, I dismissed everyone until dawn, pushed Armand in the bedroom and turned to the footmen behind me.

“Let it be clear that unless Lyon is burning or under attack, I will decapitate the first man who passes through this door before dawn tomorrow.”

By the wave of sheer panic briefly passing across Armand's face, the valets for sure thought I was in for a fight. _Good. _

I slammed the door, locked it tight, and turned to my Beast with a hungry growl rumbling in my throat. I narrowed my eyes at his distressed flinch, unclasping the buckles of my riding cloak as I hissed.

“You never seem to like how _starved _I am after months of your absence, Armand, and yet, you have been _very resolute_ upon leaving me alone in the Louvre for that long.”

Those words punched him in the chest much more than I expected_. _I watched, stunned, as he shivered horribly, taking a step back in guilt, and I understood that I had mentioned the Louvre, which was nothing more than my mother's nest of snakes. Even the shadow of her name still made him crumble in fear.   
He had no idea my doubts had vanished, _n__o idea at all. _If my dumb, short-sighted mother had been clueless about my train of thoughts, well, so had he, and his relentless, raging anguish might have been to blame.

I wanted to make him understand, I wanted to reassure him, but the truth was, I was still bloody terrified myself, not by the choice itself anymore of course, _but by the sheer absence of it._

By the dreadful, horrible thing I'll be forced to do to my mother the day she forces me into it.

The thought itself made me wince in agony. How was I supposed to make the whirlwind of his mind hear reason with my own guts twisting in apprehension? It would have required some of those skills I never had.

Speech, after all, had never been my strong suit.

So instead of talking, once more, I decided to _act, _my unfulfilled need for his skin much easier to speak about than the torments in my heart. 

I strode towards him, it’s true, but through the flames of my hunger, I still remained gentle. To stall for time against our shared nightmares one more time, I showed myself _kind_.

I roughly cupped his face and devoured his mouth, but I kept murmuring enough endearments for him to relax, smile softly and lower his eyes.

I ordered him to undress, but I breathed one praise or two as he did. Not the most flowery I fear. “I like your hands” I remember saying, but he blushed, so it seemed to be enough.

I told him to kneel for his King, sitting on the bed untying my pants, but I moaned in satisfaction as he did, stroking his hair as I pulled him down on me.

He licked and sucked in slow rhythms, skilful, devilish, his hands grazing my inner thigh with shaking adoration. He pleasured me, focused and docile, on his knees like it was the most natural place to be.

And to my delighted heart, it certainly was.

I wanted to last, I wanted _control_, but I heard myself chanting his name far too soon, gripping his hair with shuddering fingers, and by the time I wanted to stop him, it was already too late. I came in his mouth after a few minutes, stunned and gaping, lost in deep, hectic spasms of bliss.

Though light-headed and panting, I still remembered to lay a finger on his mouth afterwards.

“Wait.” I rasped. “Don't do it if you don't want to.”

But his glassy, blackened pupils looked straight at me then, and he swallowed – unflinching- with a bloody _smile_ on his wet, swollen lips. I moaned, high-pitched, pathetic, my cock already twitching, and I didn't even know it to be possible. But, truth be told, all those years, _without a clue, _between thick air and icy sheets.

He spent some time leisurely licking every trace of what he had done on the soft skin of my lower stomach, shyly stroking his own cock while he applied himself, and before he was finished, astonished and breathless, I was rock-hard again.

The proud, yet meek grin he had as he rested his cheek against my thigh _mewling_ in pleasure, God, it drove me to a frenzy. I wanted everything.

  
_Everything._

On pure instinct, I hauled him up on the bed face-first and laid down on top of him. The way our bodies fit together, right there, made me cry out in a need I couldn't even name. My cock, engorged and slick, was sliding in the smooth cleft of his buttocks, and every inch, every scrap of my body wanted to fill him, thrust in him, make him mine, _have him whole. _

I remembered about that book, he told me he knew everything, and I trusted him about that.

But I saw myself, drenched in sin, smothering him under my weight, already sated, still wanting more. I saw myself, the Christian King, asking his First Minister, Cardinal by divine hand, to teach him _sodomy_. I saw myself, and though I knew it was too late, though I knew I had lost my soul to him fifteen years ago, I froze in my moves and clenched my teeth.

I wanted to be inside of him, Hell_ how I wanted it,_ I wanted everything, but I never asked.

I grabbed his shoulder instead, turning him around, and without a word, without a hint, I got a hold of both our shafts and started moving against him. He looked up, concerned for a while, but I only hid my face deep in his neck. I couldn't show weakness. Not to him, not ever.

_I am his Master. _

He didn't try to search my face, he didn't even ask. He cried out in my ear again, so gentle, so soft, that soon enough pleasure conquered my mind again, chasing away darkness and doubt.

Wasn't it God's plan, after all?

Was there even a choice?

  
Calmed by my first climax, I took the luxury of time. Focused on the sounds of him with stunned hunger, I learned the way he shivered whenever he was about to fall and took control by slowing down. I was able to do that two or three times, watching him squirm and beg in sheer triumph, but at some point, he started speaking, _silver-tongued snake_, breathing words of adoration into my ear.

“Everything I am is yours.” He panted, and I swear I saw stars for a while.

I grunted his name, losing balance, losing rhythm, losing my mind.

“Your Majesty” He moaned.

_Louis_, my lips mouthed against his. I never knew if he noticed.

We both came together in desperate, broken screams.

Later on, he finally helped me out of my clothes, folding them carefully on a chair next to the bed, served me wine and a tray of fruits, only sliding into his nightshirt when I declared myself content.

To my sheer disappointment then, instead of coming back to my bed, he went for his trunks beside the smaller cot they pushed there for him, to retrieve a few documents and shuffle through them.

  
I rolled my eyes and sighed, already bored.

But instead of settling on a chair or on his own cot, he silently came to sit on the floor right next to my bed, disposing papers on my covers and reading them aloud for me. I stared, amazed, but his position seemed so natural to him that I didn't find it in me to order him otherwise.

He unrolled a map of Casal I had seen before to show me new annotations, talking about the differences in strategy between Spain and the German Empire, and with our hands and thighs barely cleaned from our seeds, our throats still sore from moaning, we, in fact, started working.

While our options to reconquer the Valteline were all dutifully reviewed, compared, analysed, from time to time, I cut a slice of orange to hand it to him, and he never refused. I forgot, it’s true, to use the power I have over him to make him take care of himself.

_The only man he obeys to. _

I grinned in jubilation, watching him lick the sugary juice off his fingers.

How long it lasted, I do not care. All I know, is that we talked battle and infantry, we talked horses and cannon fire, and once or twice, tired of just stroking his cheek or his hair, I hissed a short command and gestured to the bed. Once or twice he obediently laid his papers aside and climbed back next to me to let me do with him as I pleased. I couldn't help it, he was magnificent, and I felt _vigorous_.

I was at war, he was in my bed, my skin burning, his eyes half-closed, and though he showed saintly patience, I was, I confess, _insatiable_. We didn't sleep much, and if we did, it's only because at some point, he begged me for a truce, raising his hands in surrender with a tired smile on his thin mouth.

“Mon Roi, _please_ let me rest.” He breathed, “Your Majesty will only be thirty next year, while I am already an old man.”

I stopped and stared, eyeing him from head to toe. I loved that silver hair so much I forgot it's above all a sign of age, and those lines around his eyes, I didn't realise they don't all come from pain.

“How old are you?” I blurted out.

He blinked. He seemed to be counting.

“Forty-five, Your Majesty.” He finally said.

I frowned, confused, inspecting his face, his hands. He looked timeless to me. His cheeks were smooth, his eyes ardent, his limbs lean and solid, his heart steady and quiet.

Sixteen years stretched between us, and yet, as we were forging History in between hours of arduous sex this night, we were, to my bewildered mind, _both immortal._

“Would La Rochelle, Suse, Uzé and Montauban ever describe you as an old man?” I whispered to him.

He laughed, but still retreated to his bed with an apologetic glance.

***

“Who did Urbain VIII send you?” I ask above the rim of my glass of wine, and he turns to me with a soft smile.

“I don't know, Your Majesty.” He shrugs. “I was told the usual emissary won't come today as he is growing old it seems.”

He opens one of his books, shuffles through the pages, finds one sentence that he copies on a paper sheet already blackened with notes, and claps the book down, muttering, “Not that it matters a lot, really...”

I chuckle.

True, no matter who the Vatican is sending to dissuade us from war in Valteline, there is no world where we would change our minds. We submitted half of France to our will last year, and we have no intention of stepping back now.

No matter the price, no matter the stakes. My dear Armand and I, we are _unstoppable._

I take another sip, lean back in my chair and enjoy the view of his agile hands, manipulating maps and notebooks. My body is still buzzing with this night's _multiple_ delights, most of them I could hardly believe. He looks peaceful and self-assured, clearly at his best in diplomatic meetings, his formal robes flowing around his tall silhouette in a masterpiece of red silk.

As long as my Mother's name is carefully avoided, and the whispers of my own fears are covered by the thunder of gunfire, we're both safe. _We're both safe. _

“Monsignore Giulio Mazarini, Captain of the Pontifical Army, Nonce of His Holiness Urbain VIII” the valet announces.

Armand has a short bow towards me that says _“look how I'll handle this.”_

I just smile and yawn a bit.

A young man enters, bowing low, holding a messy stack of documents in his hands, his black travel robes floating around his legs. He's smaller than I by two inches at least, but quite athletic nonetheless. His face is refined and elegant, bearing the high brow of intellectuals, o_h, dear God, not one more. _

His eyes are dark and glowing, as all Italians have, his olive skin making his stare even brighter. His hairline is already receding, _a pity_, but the hair that's left is of a fierce, healthy shade of ebony. He smiles in a flash of white teeth, saluting me with a commonplace sentence I'll never remember and turning to Richelieu with absolute awe in his stance.

“Might I say, Your Eminence,” He breathes, ecstatic, “how honoured I feel that God has placed me in your holy presence.”

His voice is soft and nice to hear, with a subtle accent that doesn't go beyond the limits of ridicule. He spoke fluently, gracefully, and above all with a flame of _sincerity_, but Richelieu, standing tall, makes a show of barely raising his eyebrows to that, distractedly flipping through a heap of military reports.

Far from looking affected, the young Nonce only steps closer, describing in detail how the Pope himself has charged him with the mission of meeting the First Minister of France, His Holiness' choice no doubt justified by the most satisfactory results Mazarini has been blessed with in his previous negotiations with Spain and Italy.

With that, he lays down his documents on the desk the Cardinal had carefully arranged, and I see Armand biting his lips in irritation. I huff a tranquil laugh, pouring myself another glass.

_That doesn't bode too well for the Nonce. _

“I have a lot to say to you, Your Eminence, and I hope you'll forgive me if I let myself be carried away by the faith I hold in my arguments.”

Richelieu still doesn't look at him, sighing and pushing one of Mazarini's maps aside to retrieve a smaller book of his, but the young Italian's voice drops a tone then, as he whispers.

“Didn't you write, after all, that _there must be a lot of listening and much less talking in good maintenance of State business_?”

And with _that_, Armand looks up, eyes wide.

“You have read my essays, _Monsignore_?” He asks, his haughty spectacle abruptly cancelled.

“All of them, Your Eminence!” Mazarini exults. “They follow me everywhere right next to the Holy Bible. I have a copy of your theology monograph lent to me by Father Denisot himself from -

“- the abbey of Fontfroide.” Richelieu cuts in, visibly impressed. “That is, I think, the only copy in France beside my own.”

“I treasure it as such.” The Italian compliments, eager, vibrant, and _heartfelt_. “The work, no doubt, of one of the brightest minds of this century.”

Bloody Hell, what are they even talking about? In six years at Court, I had never noticed Armand writing anything like a book. I didn't even know he had published theology essays.

_And there comes that stripling prancing about, saying it's his bloody bedside reading! _

Hah.  
Bookworms in robes, all of them. I am King of France, I have a whole nation to attend to, I don't have time for dusty _books_. I bite on the thought that even if Armand had pushed those books right under my nose, I'd never have read them anyway. I never cared much for reading, how could I have?

_I've been at war my whole damned life. _

I growl, gulping down my wine.

The young Nonce talks, _oh that he does_, and I barely get a grip on what he says. He quotes the Bible, I think, the Pope himself, antique Rome poets, and obscure Italian philosophers I bloody never heard of. Everything goes in as long as he can use it for his purposes, and it's all so hermetic it's _aggravating_.

_Oh, why bother. _Can't he see it's pointless?

He's bringing a thousand years of scriptures back to the Castle of Pierre Encise to persuade my Red Beast out of a war he designed himself, sitting on the floor at the feet of my bed, his groin still tingling from the last orgasm I gave him.

_Heh. Good luck with that. _

Wait.

What is this, now?

As Mazarini parleys, his hands flying in the air, his eyes alive with passion, summoning Da Vinci, Saint Thomas, David or Socrates to plead for his case, something softly changes in Armand's eyes.

I narrow my eyes, leaning forward, but yes, I've seen it right.

Whatever voluble spectacle the Italian is giving him, Armand is starting to _enjoy it__. _

It's subtle, but it's there. He doesn't move much, his face poised and controlled, but from time to time he hides a furtive smile by lowering his head, feigning to search through his documents. He's pleased, he's bloody _pleased_, I know because this supple, elegant shift of his shoulders, I thought it meant for me alone when I've managed to be kind enough.

_What in the name of - _

I turn to Mazarini, wondering what the Hell Richelieu could find pleasing in this boring speech, and watch the young Nonce wear himself out in fervent tirades for peace, going from the highest reasons from the Holy Word to basic finance and politics.

It's not the contents of his argument, I think. It's clever, no doubt, definitely well-researched, and the Cardinal must appreciate that. Armand is, I must admit, such a rare bird concerning his intellect that he’s doomed to spend most of his time surrounded by people he clearly outsmarts. But beyond the joy of finding an equal in knowledge and wits, there is something more.

Something fickle.

_Something unbearable. _

“By the very words of the Ambassador of Italy” Mazarini exhales, “who is a convinced ally of yours since Your Eminence naturally _charmed_ with both intelligence and grace last year, there is no reason to discard the arbitration of the Holy Church in matters of State.”

Oh, God. He's praising him.

Not the way Richelieu is praised all the time at Court. Not those stiff, well-prepared words uttered without feeling as he enters the room, not those disgusting lies thrown at his feet to yank a favour out of his hands. No, not that way, _not that way at all. _

The young bastard is leaning slightly forward, looking up at him with humble amazement, like a student in art meeting a Master for the first time. His speech is organised, and he must have rehearsed it a few times because while he speaks, his focus slides from Armand's face to his hands, his handwriting on the desk, the rim of his cloak, the quills he has used.

The Italian steals hungry glances everywhere, devouring details with eager adoration as if he wanted to keep them with him forever on.

  
His praises are sincere. All of them.

_All of them. _

And to my growing rage, it bloody _works. _

Armand looks cautious at first, guarding his reactions, keeping a blank face as much as he can while the warmth of Mazarini's honesty visibly battles his own self-hatred inside. But when the Italian's voice rises in candid enthusiasm, his gestures fierce, his face spirited, he gingerly lowers his guard, his lips curling up, his back straightening.

That perky, subtle twitch of his legs, where does that come from? That shift of his shoulders, I thought made for me alone. Armand is pleased. And it's not by _me_.

I feel a storm washing over my guts, something ugly, something deep.

I growl, low and menacing, laying down my glass and letting my back thump against my armchair.

Armand turns to me, alarmed. _Good. _

  
But before I can snarl my irritation at him, that damned Nonce starts speaking again, invoking Caesar and his War of the Gauls, and the burning embers fly back to him.

How dare you look away, filthy snake?

_How dare you smile at him like that? _

I am the King of France, _you are my property._

Know your place, animal.

_Know your place. _

“As I said, Your Eminence,” the young brat is murmuring, “I can only try to guide my actions by your thinking, for the hope of becoming even half of the Statesman you are is high enough for my soul's worth.”

That _face_ Armand has as he hears that, no_, he has no right- _

That smile is mine. Tainted priest, you swore it to me.

  
Everything you are is mine.

_You have no right. _

I vaguely feel my nails cutting wounds in the insides of my hands. I'm trembling with fury, so hard it hurts. _God, it hurts. _

Mazarini starts a new stanza in his damned Ode to Richelieu, speaking of Mars himself being charmed by virtues of moderation, calling to Armand's wisdom in balanced, yet intricate words.

And as the Italian filth quotes a complete paragraph of his theology essay back to Richelieu without the slightest error, Armand _blushes_ in delight, and I hear something break.

I look down.

The chair I was sitting in might be centuries old, but I snapped one of the armrests in half all the same. As I hear Armand gasp in distress, I realise my hand is bleeding.

Before Mazarini can understand what's happening, The Cardinal's slender red figure swiftly slides closer to hide me, and I hear his voice, tense with worry, but still intolerably _gentle_.

“That will be all, I think, Monsignore.”

“Of course.” Mazarini bows, his gaze dropped on the floor, picking up his documents in humble movements.

Armand glances at me in raw anguish, gauging the fury in my eyes, _oh, you have no idea. _He pales, gulping loud, but he still turns to the Nonce with a charming, polite face.

_Now, you've always been good at keeping facades, haven't you? _

I don't see much of Mazarini after that, and it's more than enough. Apparently oblivious to my anger, the young bastard walks to the door, biting his lips in hesitation, and right before he leaves, he turns around and mutters in a low, _honeyed _voice.

“I haven't told you everything, Your Eminence. May we continue tomorrow?”

** _Never_ ** _. Send this mongrel out of my Kingdom, right now, Armand, or I swear I'll -_

“If you like.” I hear the Red Beast say, and that smile in his voice _breaks me to pieces_.

** _No_ ** _. _

_I see myself, abandoned and frustrated, alone in my cold bed, watching him find elsewhere a better embodiment of his purpose. _

_Agony rises. Destroying everything._

  
I'm shaking in rage, my head spinning, my chest clenching.

He can't leave me, I'll have him bleed. _I'll have him exiled if not shot down. _

I glare up, gnashing teeth, but he doesn't even look at me.

He's standing with his back turned on me, shielding me from Mazarini's view until the door softly clicks shut. Only then, he spins around, leaning down to me, and reaching out for my wounded hand with a frown of concern.

“Your Majesty, allow me to-

**-clack!- **

The blow sends him flying to the floor, his back hitting the thick oak table legs. His robes spread on the hard stones in delicate brushstrokes, and for a while, he doesn't move.

_He doesn't move. _

“_Get up, treacherous beast_.” I hear myself spit.

But nothing even twitches in the heap of red fabric at my feet.

“_Get up!_” I roar, but my voice is already broken.

I won't fool anyone, not even myself.

Like it or not, my heart sinks low in my stomach, the cold sweat of panic running down my spine.

He doesn't move.

  
I jump off my chair and rush at his side, _oh God, what have I done? _

His left cheek is covered in blood, and if his eyes are open wide, they don't look like they see anything. He's breathing, thank Heavens_, he's breathing_, but he looks petrified, both by pain and by heartbreak.

So much blood, what have I done?

_Who is the beast to be tamed?_

_Who is the demon after all? _

“Armand?”

He doesn't reply. He's lying, limp on the stone floor, gazing in the distance, silent, _shattered. _

  
What have I done, is this who I am?

Damaged, inept, unable to hold on to anything good that's given to me.

Forevermore _an empty shell filled with fury. _

I rub my hands together to keep them from shaking, looking around in helplessness, but I feel my palms wet and sticky, wait-

Startling, I glance down at them, oh, God, of course.

_It's my blood on his face, not his. _

I let out a cry of relief, pulling out my handkerchief, rushing to a jar of clear water on his desk and soaking the fabric in there. I kneel back next to him and wipe his face with careful moves.

As beneath the cloth, his pale white skin is revealed, almost intact, my chest unlocks, and I mutter a short prayer. I gather him in my arms and help him sit up, feeling his back for bruises or cuts.

He's alright. I squeeze my eyes shut, exhale, my Armand, _he's alright_.

I feel tears stinging at the corners of my eyes, _no, you cannot show weakness. Not to him, not ever. _

As I hold him close he subtly starts to support his own weight again, wincing in pain, and in the distant blur of his anthracite eyes, I recognize the work of that stubborn anger I swore someday I would control, _oh I could have killed him, fool that I am, I owe him more than that._

  
I owe him much more than that.

“Armand, I am sorry” I whisper against his hair.

With that, he jumps a little, and I feel the tension easing away from his spine as he imperceptibly rests his head further against my chest. His eyes remain cold, but his voice is a peaceful sigh as he breathes.

“I know.”

I lay a quick kiss on his temple, and move to help him stand, but for the first time, maybe, I feel his hand on my sleeve pulling me back to the floor with him just a little _imperative. _He's not ordering, not at all, his other hand pressed on his heart in his usual sign of obedience, his shoulders dropped, his gaze low, his neck offered to my command.

He's not ordering, just resolute.

_You owe me more_, his thin hand says, and I don't see how I could deny him.

“Armand?” I speak again, as gently as I can while I'm still choking on misery.

“Why were you angry?” He asks me then, in a very clear, very quiet voice.

My throat clenches in outrage at first,_ what, you don't know? Wasn't it clear?_

But he asked me a question, and he's right. I owe him. I search, then, behind the howling voices of shame and sorrow, for the pain and the anger I felt a few moments before. I see glimpses of his smiles, his voice, his blush, and though I know I was furious minutes ago, my voice is only strained by dismay as I stammer.

  
“The way you were looking at him, that Italian... I thought... I felt....”

“Do you think I want to serve anyone but you?” His determined voice cuts in.

I open my mouth to tell him _I don't know, and that's the point_, but before I utter the first sound, my gaze falls on his messy, busy desk. His maps, his letters, his work. His endless days, his sleepless nights. His plans for the future on his precious books, written while following me in carriages, in tents, in barracks, in corridors.

Even sitting down at the feet of my bed.

That magnificent man spent years of purgatory, crawling under my mother's tyranny to get a chance at offering me a whole stronghold. He wore himself out to build my Kingdom, counting his success by the number of traitors wanting him dead, all of this, all the time, only for me. In exchange, all along, he never asked for anything but the safety of my presence. He wants to feel safe, that's all.

At my side, he thrives, in my arms, he blooms.

_I have been a fool. _

“No.” I let out.

“Do you think I have any other purpose than your legacy?” He goes on.

I frown, trying to find the truest of answers, because he asked, and I owe him that at least. I still hear the Courtier's rumbling voices, _tainted priest, cunning beast, devoured by ambition. _

_He'll take over your throne,_ pain once said, _and laugh at your grave. _

But every time I called his name, he was right there. He didn't fail me once.

When I asked him for war, he gave me battlefields.

When I asked him for warmth, he gave me sweet delights.

Whatever I need, he always offered. A powerful state, a wealthy Kingdom.

Prestige for my name, plans for the future.

His brilliant mind, his subtle elegance, _at my service forevermore._

“No.” I sigh.

“Do you think my promises are weak?”

This time, I don't even have to think.

It's been the cement of our bond, the first spark of light that ever brought me to him. In my palace of treachery and lies, in my family of masks and mirrors, against all the odds, the only truth I could find was laid between those slender hands. His undying flame. His burning resolve. He'll be there for me, or he'll die trying, Lord, of course, _I trust him blindly._

  
  


“No.” I breathe.

He nods, and sits up a little bit straighter then, just enough to look at me in the eyes. His glassy pools of darkness pierce through me, and his hand leaves my sleeve to lay down flat upon my heart, humble, but unyielding.

“Then why, exactly, were you angry?” He speaks then, merciless, and as I search for an answer, the Earth slowly crumbles under my feet.

My pain, my anger. I thought they were righteous, I thought they were justified.

I thought he was betraying his duty, his place, his promises, his vows

  
But in three short, simple questions, he just stripped me naked of all those certainties, and what remains, shining bright in my shaking hands, makes me gasp in panic. That pain that anger, they weren't righteous or justified. They came from nothing more than a deep, visceral fear.

Not the fear of losing a Minister to the smooth talking of Mazarini.

Not the fear of losing a servant to the cleverness of that young man.

Not the fear of losing my property to a new, cunning Master.

What I was terrified of losing was my greatest -

_-my only friend. _

My Beast, my delight, my fighter, my storm.

My monster in silk, my shadow in red, my -

_Oh, God._

_My love. _

My throat clenches, and I breathe in small gasps, swaying, light-headed. I am terrified, I am overwhelmed, I am wrecked as I have never been, even staring down the barrel of a gun, but the truth is there shining brightly into my heart, deafening, blinding, and it cannot be ignored.

This is what binds me to that man, beneath duty, vows and promises.

His name and mine entwined forevermore on the pages of History.

That ardent, unearthly warmth he's giving me, _God, have mercy_, it is returned.

Is there even a choice. _Has there ever been? _

I am in love.

I ask him in silence, my eyes blurred, my arms shaking, _you can't be asking me to **say** it._

_Please, Armand, don't make me say it. _

But it is Armand, my dear Armand, and he never wanted me to speak. He wanted me to realise, that's all. His hand on my heart has taught him everything he needed to know, and though his jaw is reddened and bruising fast, he smiles the softest of smiles for me again, and I don't think angels would do any better.

  
He stretches up to kiss my lips, but I only blink, stunned and exhausted. I think it's him who helps me stand up in the end.

We drink together what is left of my wine, and discuss a solid lie we'll have to share to justify the broken furniture, the cuts and bruises, once we'll step out of this room. One of us would have to appear quite clumsy eventually, and I gladly propose myself for that small sacrifice.

“Do you want to attend tomorrow's meeting with Monsignore Mazarini?” He gently asks me at some point.

I huff a sorry smile and shake my head. I have troops to review, tactics to discuss.

And I need time, I think, to get accustomed to this one word I never thought would concern me.


	4. February the 20th 1630, Pas de Suse, Savoy.

I only met Mazarini twice before we marched over the Alps once more.

Indeed he came back the next day, still grinning bright, his arms clutching papers and books. I saw him at the gates of the castle while I was reviewing Bassompierre's regiments, trotting in joy to the main building, his head visibly filled with new quotes, new poems.

I didn't smile because I found him amusing, or because he was a cheerful sight.

I smiled because I wasn't afraid anymore.

_  
I wasn't afraid at all. _

I was far too troubled and tired the previous night to even lift Armand's nightshirt, and it hasn't been too much of an inconvenience, because well, it forced us to talk a little.

We didn't talk about Mother, for it would upset him too much.

We didn't talk about love, because my throat still clenched around the word.

So, laying both on my own bed, eating desserts and drinking herbs, we peacefully talked about Monsignore Mazarini.

Sprawled on his stomach next to me, breaking bits out of a slice of Quatre-Quarts cake to lift them to his mouth, Armand told me France could come to need more men of intelligence, and that the young Nonce had promising qualities. He started listing the Italian's past successes in war negotiations, and how his gift with words was generously wrapped in a devious mind and a taste for politics.

“Why would I need him if I already have you,” I purred, playful, passing a finger on his lower back. 

  
But he remained serious, and just counted out his years for me again. He told me in a pained whisper that he wouldn't be eternal, that I should consider my own interests in the future. I shouted in denial, unable to handle _that _in the state I was in, and he pliantly dropped the subject.

I wanted to reward him with praise, but I am not Mazarini, and the only thing I came up with was a rough slap on his firm buttocks, telling him this was the skin of a young man.

He choked on his cake, hiding his blushing face in the pillows, but I still felt him beaming with barely concealed joy. Though I already knew praise made him feel good, I started then to wonder _why_.

He isn't vain that man, never has been. He barely spares one glance a day for a mirror, mostly to adjust his robes or to pin that irritating hat to his hair, and when he has valets at hand to do it for him, he ignores mirrors entirely.

He never searched for fame or recognition for his wits, his talent. After all, he even encouraged the people's hatred towards himself by taking the blame for the most unpopular of our decisions. If he cares for his prestige, it is merely to be a proper reflection of France's or my own. No, he isn't vain at all, and yet, he lives and breathes for the smallest of praises.

I watched him closer as I threw him a few more of my crude, uneducated compliments, and I noticed at some point his whole body gradually relaxing, his unease quickly drowned in contentment. It was then, I think, that I understood.

It’s that sickness again. This permanent state of anguish he's in, voices of shame and self-loathing howling in his ears from his inner storm beyond the wall. All day, every day.

Praise must silence these voices for a while. It chases away his demons, even temporarily, and though he might never believe them for long, compliments make him feel safe.

_Praise makes him feel good. _

I felt a pinch of bitterness, thinking he would never get from me the delicate, flowery ovation he got from Mazarini, but I, with that new truth glowing in my chest, couldn't find fear in myself anymore, so I merely decided that if I couldn't praise him better, _well, I'd just praise him more. _

Straight away, I gave out a dozen unrefined, savage compliments to him, each time passing my fingers on the spot of skin I was paying tribute to, and by the end of it, he was whimpering, squirming in bliss, gripping the sheets in what could be nothing less than sheer pleasure, looking up at me with pure veneration and the truest of his smiles.

I chuckled proudly.

Compare to _that,_ Mazarini.

So as the young Italian passed cheerfully fifty yards behind my back the next morning, I just let him walk by, never breaking the conversation I was having with the regiment's cooks.

I wasn't afraid. _I thought I'd never be again. _

He was walking out of Richelieu's reception room, no less than three hours later, when I almost bumped into him. He bowed gracefully for me, with a polite, unsurprising salute, but turned once more to Armand right after.

The Cardinal was still inside, obviously having held the door open for him, smiling sweetly, his stance so endearing I thought for a dreadful second that he would announce our retreat from war. Apparently, Mazarini thought the very same, because his voice was radiating hope when he asked, “Did Your Eminence enjoy my speech?”

Richelieu joined his hands on his stomach, lowering his eyelids for a while, wrapping the Italian in the warmest of stares.

“A lot.” he breathed.

“Have I managed to change Your Eminence's mind?” Mazarini tried, bending forward in bashfulness.

“Not in the slightest,” Armand said, his charmed tone unchanged.

I bit my cheeks on a sigh of relief.

My Red Beast's mind was unmoved. Interested, no doubt, but unmoved, and the young bastard had spoken for _three hours. _To my complete astonishment, Mazarini didn't even sigh, his smile only widening.

“You must allow me to come back again tomorrow, then!” He pleaded.

“Monsignore, I must warn you” Richelieu spoke, a bit sterner “we leave for the Alps tomorrow at noon.”

“Then I'll only occupy your morning.” The Nonce laughed, darting past me and running to the stairs.

I stayed in the corridor, watching Mazarini disappear with a confused frown as Armand gathered a few papers and closed the office door. When my Beast brushed my arm, asking me if I had eaten already, I was still staring at the ghost of the Nonce in the darkening staircase.

“This has never been about convincing you,” I muttered.

“Yes it has, Your Majesty” Richelieu told me with a cheerful wave of his hand. “But certainly not about the war.”

_About what, then? _I wanted to ask, but he started reading reports to me about the demolition of Huguenots stronghold, and I quickly forgot about it.

I only remembered on that last day, as I met Mazarini a third time in the Castle's courtyard.

Richelieu was walking him back to his carriage, obviously still exchanging books and notes with the young man, their satisfied smiles perfectly matched.

It was a strange, compelling sight, the both of them, silver hair and black locks, red cloak, and dark robes. They seemed to be bidding goodbye to each other, and yet I felt, somewhere, that I would see the pair of them much more in the future.

As I walked closer, I caught the last words of their dialogue, Mazarini dropping his documents in the carriage to rush back and take Armand's hand in his own.

“I spoke to you for three days straight.” He panted, staring at the Cardinal's face in raw, fatigued delight.

Richelieu only rolled his eyes a bit, raising his other hand in a calming gesture.

“You could have spoken for twenty more, it wouldn't have changed a thing.” He rebuffed him.

“Oh, I know, Your Eminence.” The young Nonce laughed. “I know.”

Armand huffed a fond chuckle, letting him step in the carriage and closing the door on Mazarini's excited, energetic frame. Before he ordered the driver to spur the horses, the Italian still leaned through the small window, catching Richelieu's wrist with both hands.

“Will I see Your Eminence again?” He begged. “To bring him those books we spoke about.”

At this point, The Cardinal noticed me stepping near and had an elegant, subtle tilt of the head towards me.

“I am sure His Majesty will offer you his hospitality once he has reclaimed his menaced lands.” The Red Beast promised with an affable smile.

And by the way the young Nonce laid two devoted kisses on Richelieu's hand, this invitation was indeed, _all he was about. _

“I'd be overjoyed, Your Majesty.” He said to me, and this man never failed to be sincere after all.

Once the small carriage had disappeared beyond the ancient gates, I turned to Armand and gestured at the troops in the courtyard, standing at attention and ready to march.

“Shall we?” I laughed, and it looked more like a request to dance than an order to wage war.

*** 

Our journey to the frontier unfolds once more without a hitch. My officers and I do notice, of course, how tiredness is eroding our soldier's steps, but every night as they set camp, their cheerful songs and roaring laughter breathe trust back in our worried hearts.

It's been three years of war. It's been a lifetime of it.

I don't mind. Truly, I don't. I would gladly spend the rest of my days on dusty roads meandering between battlefields, sharing my men's bread and stew, rather than live one more year locked inside the narrow corridors of the Louvre, facing the Courtier's gossip and my family's intrigues.

If I could live and die by the smell of gunpowder, Lord, how happy I would be.

I'd be at war, he'd be with me. _We'd be unstoppable forevermore._

Right before the winding road to the Pas de Suse starts climbing up in front of us, I turn to Armand riding next to me, an excited word on my lips. But when I see his face, I clap my mouth shut with a sigh of frustration.

His eyes are cold again. He doesn't see the snowy silhouette of the Mont Cenis, he doesn't smell the rhododendrons. He doesn't hear the steady march of our troops, the encouraging shouts of the Generals. He doesn't feel any of this.

_He's working. _

He's riding his warhorse straight to battle and, I'm sure of it, in his mind, he is only _working_. I can almost see the checklists, the schemes, the calculations brewing in his mind, and I saw him muttering once or twice what sounded like names. If he could write while riding, I have no doubt he gladly would, I see that by the way he rushes to the trunk where his documents lie every evening from the very moment he steps down from his horse.

For God’s sake, he was more than fine when we left Pierre Encise three days ago. Hell, he was less troubled than me. He was peaceful, confident, quietly settled in our new truth, while I was still – _a bit stunned_.

But then, he started to receive coded notes along the way, brought by a different Capuchin monk every time, and his usual anguish gradually gnawed at the light in his eyes until he became an emotionless machine riding next to me, with thoughts a hundred miles away once more.

“We'll set camp in Suse tonight,” I tell him. “The Citadel and town are still French lands.”

He already knows. I just want to snap him out of his thoughts for a moment. I do that at least five times a day, and I know it annoys him more than anything. But God, thirty thousand men are marching right behind him, ready to lay down their lives in battle, and I want his thoughts to be here with them. _To be here with me. _

He blinks slowly and gives a polite smile as always, lifting distracted eyes up to the narrow passageway to Italy in front of us. He turns around to take a look at the troops then, meeting the joyous face of Bassompierre right behind him. The good-hearted General seizes the occasion to make a joke about buying a villa on those lands he's beginning to know by heart.

“I have already seen more of Suse than my gardens of Haroué!”

With that, Armand's worried face lightens up like the morning sun, and I could kiss Bassompierre's face in thankfulness.

“I want those cursed mountains flattened down then, General” I cut in cheerfully, “to make it easier for me to visit you.”

With that, my Red Beast turns to me, and I decide I want to witness that mirth I see shining in his eyes each and every one of my days.

“If the King of Frances asks for it” He gently states with a shrug, “who knows what can and cannot be done?”

I only laugh, but I swear to God both hands clench into a fist, stopping themselves from reaching for his hair.

Yet as always, the distraction doesn't last, and by the time we descend to the valley of Suse, I have lost him again. He barely looks around as the troops halt in the same meadow under the Citadel we camped in last year, and though he gladly took care of everything last time, today he leaves all the assembling to me.

He dismounts, worrying his thumb again, goes straight to his trunk, pulls a quill out of it and, I guess, throws on paper all the things that were smothering his mind while riding. As the lieutenants come to get their orders, he just hisses for his desk to be set under the tent right away, and _Hell, I'm sick of this nonsense. _

I give him time until the Royal tent is built up, his precious working table unloaded and readied underneath, but just as he starts spreading his heaps of paper-sheets and books on it, I bang both fists upon them all.

“What's wrong?” I growl.

He looks up at me, distant, evasive, his hands still busy with small coded notes.

“Nothing much, Your Majesty.” He mutters, _oh, not those cheap, botched lies Armand._

Not with me.

I snatch the notes out of his fingers, tearing some in the process, and brandish them above my shoulder.

“What's this about?” I ask, commandeering.

He bites his lips, his eyes on the torn paper, and speaks, as blankly as he can.

“That one is Joseph informing me that the Duke of Guise is gathering the Grands in the South to form an alliance set to have me killed.”

I gape, dumbfounded, shifting the papers down and staring at their blurred lines of code as if they could reveal anything more than that. Sighing, Armand points at the sheet underneath the one I'm looking at, adding in that same monotone voice, “This one is about the Duke of Bellegarde, an acquaintance of yours I think, financing rebellion in Languedoc, and carrying around his neck at all times a pact that promises him half of the Kingdom if he shoots me down.”

My stare slowly leaves the notes to meet his face, and I don't think I can breathe much. Guise I can understand, his family and the Bourbons have a _history_. But Bellegarde, I trusted. I named him as governor of Bourgogne myself to replace a corrupt, greedier man. Armand disagreed at the time, and I plead for Bellegarde. _I ordered for him. _

He was a comrade.

My trusted men, my brothers in arms, wanting to kill a servant of France. They want to kill him, my Minister, my adviser. My monster in silk, my shadow in red.

_Oh, God,_ _my love. _

I barely can stand on my legs.

“Why the Hell didn't you tell me?” I rasp.

“Because this doesn't worry me the slightest.” He shrugs.

“_What?”_

I choke on a million reasons why it should worry him _a lot_, but I swear, he frowns it all away, waving his graceful hands in the air, and pleading in a meek, but fervent voice.

“It has happened before, Your Majesty, and it will happen again. I told you already, each of these traitors to France wanting me dead is another sign that I am on the right track.”

Enraged, overwhelmed, I slam the crumpled notes on the table and start pacing around, hissing at the bare walls of the Royal tent.

“What's troubling you so, then, if two assassination plots in the same Province won't?”

Silence.

I spin around and face him.

He has lowered his eyes, joined his hands on his heart, and this fear, this visceral _fear_ in the twitch of his fingers, I think I know all too well. That nightmare, that shadow hovering above even our highest moments of bliss. That last ominous storm in our painfully earned skies.

I'm afraid to understand.

“Bellegarde's pact.” I breathe, walking closer in uneasy steps. “Who has he signed it with?”

_Silence. _

He has lifted his hands to his mouth, and he’s biting so hard I see his whole body shudder in pain, his stare still nailed on the floor. I rush towards him growling, and if he doesn't step back, it's because it's not me he's frightened of. It's not me.

I circle around the table and force his hands away from his teeth, wincing at a flash of blood on his lips. I grab his face and make him look at me, summoning rage to hide my terror.

_I'm afraid to understand._

“_Who,_ Armand?” I snarl.

He whimpers, shivering dreadfully, and long before tears start to roll from his wide shimmering eyes, _I think I’ve understood. _

It's her.

Of course, it's her.

The nightmare, the shadow.

The Red Beast doesn't fear war, he doesn't fear death. He doesn't fear cannonballs or gun bullets. He fears no one, least of all me.

_No one except for my dear Mother. _

I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my head against his temple. Half the Kingdom. Half of _my country _to reward a man for the murder of Armand. She's vile, she's foul, and God, she's _wrong. _She never cared, she never will.

Neither for France nor for me.

_There has never been a choice. _

I want to be at war. I want to spend my life on dusty roads meandering between battlefields, eating plain bread, living roughly. I want to live and die by the smell of gunpowder, because in Paris, sooner or later, she will force me to hurt her.

Prison, exile, humiliation, disgrace.

_And For God's sake, I am her son. _

I don't want to talk about her. I don't want to know why; I don't want to know how.

I don't even want to speak her name, because he'll end up seeing how terrified I am, of her, _of myself_, and I cannot be weak, not in front of him, not now, not ever. I am his Master.

I kiss his cheek, lingering there, and we both sigh in sheer relief. I want more, I always will, and before I realise it my hands are already searching for his waist, but a clear voice calls from the entrance of the tent, and we jolt apart in a second.

“Your Majesty!” Schomberg's shouting. “We have a visitor!”

I exhale a trembling sigh, rub my face into my hands, and throw Armand an inquiring look. He inspects me from head to toe, quickly adjusts a side of my collar and nods. I step out in the crisp evening air.

“Who the Hell?” I grunt.

Schomberg just hands me a spyglass and points towards the South. In the receding sunlight, I make out five riders on the road, the one in the middle looking like Charles Emmanuel of Savoy himself, along with a complete diplomatic suite.

“Your Majesty will appreciate” Schomberg sneers while I hand him back the instrument, “the fact that each time we enter those domains, our approach is taken a little more seriously.”

I huff a small chuckle.

Charles Emmanuel had already sent us a letter that we received in Pierre Encise, offering another profitable marriage in exchange for our withdrawal from his lands. I asked Armand what he intended to write in answer. “_Nothing_.” He grumbled, shuffling through a military strategy book written in Spanish.

Now I think about it, the deal didn’t deserve anything more.

“Do I order for a more refined dinner to be served?” Schomberg asks.

“No.” I shrug as turn back towards the tent. “I have a feeling this won’t take long.”

The Duke arrives in my camp fifteen minutes later with his chin high and a wide banner of silk. I have him lead to the Royal tent where I sit at Armand’s working table, a glass of wine in my hands, Schomberg and Bassompierre sitting on my right, my Red Beast standing on my left.

The Duke waits for me to get up for a while, and eventually bows when he understands I won’t. I'd offer him wine if his horse didn't deserve it more than he does.

“Your Majesty, I have come to discuss with you in person since the uneasy paths of the Alps seem to have lost my last letters to you.” He starts, suave and hypocritical, as all good traitors are.

I nod, leaning back in my chair, as he repeats the contents of his letter. When he seems about done I just let Armand affably explain why we're not interested. The Duke harrumphs and scoffs, his chest swollen with the pride of lesser men. He whispers a few words with his advisors then, and offers a few more trinkets, all brushed out of my plate by Richelieu's short, merciless words. 

As it goes, I watch with delight the double-faced bastard sweating more and more, terrified of my army just as he was last year.

“Let us be honest, Your Majesty” he ends up pleading_, ha! Do you even know the meaning of the word? _

“Gladly, Monsieur.” I spit as I pour myself more wine, feeding upon the thirst in his men's eyes like upon my favourite kind of cake.

“What are your intentions? From what I've heard, your men are bound for Casal, where _an unfortunate turn of events_ has trapped Marshal Toiras and the Duke of Nevers; but what of your plans for Savoy? You could be on your way to Turin for all I know!”

I'm about to yell something foul about my interest for his wretched capital being _none whatsoever_. I am there to protect my loyal allies and my faithful men, though the _concept_ might be foreign to him. But I just clench my teeth in silence instead, because that twinge I felt, it was Armand's fingers pinching my sleeve from behind, and I know what it means.

_Machiavelli has an idea. _

So I slump in my chair, growling, and let him talk again.

“His Majesty is very tired after his journey” he simply says, “since _an unfortunate turn of events_ has forced him to put order into those lands twice in a row. How about we pursue those negotiations tomorrow, during our next stage in Condove?”

I throw him a quick confused glance, _wait_. The plan was never to set camp in Condove. We're taking the northern route around Turin and stop in Balegno before we take the valley route to Montferrat.

_Oh, I hate it when I'm left out. _

But Armand’s smile looks bloody saintly as the Duke of Savoy, puzzled and terrified, is politely walked back outside without a further word, so I let him do as he pleases. My absolute trust in him, in fact, cannot surprise myself anymore.

Only later that night, after a good meal and a soundless yet hungry kiss hidden behind a pair of thick curtains, as he sits once more on the floor next to my bed unrolling his maps I lay an authoritarian hand under his chin and order.

“Now, explain yourself.”

My Red Beast looks up at me then, I decide I want to witness that mischievous glint I see shining in his eyes each and every one of my days.


	5. March the 22nd 1630, Stronghold of Pignerol, Savoy.

Armand's plan was insane, so absurd it almost looked like a child's prank, but I felt that Charles-Emmanuel, in the state of fright our last encounter left him, would fall for it without a hitch.

I approved his scheme, every detail of it. Emboldened by a surge of pride, he whispered his thanks while _licking my ear_, and I had to muffle my moan deep into my pillow. Yes, that's how this war has been designed. _This is both of us, and the ballet we dance. _

The next morning we gathered the Generals to announce our change of plans, and though they all gasped in disbelief at this senseless wager we were taking, none of them uttered a single word of protest.

Two hours later, the troops were marching on to Condove.

We didn't catch a glimpse of Charles-Emmanuel in the evening when we set camp among vineyards and low poplars, and Armand refused to tell me why he didn't look at all surprised, quietly watching the lenient skies of March over Savoy.

The day after, as we pushed forward to the welcoming lands of Rivoli, three miles West of Turin, he didn't need to tell us anymore. From the hilltop of our camp, we could see the fortifications of Turin filling up with regiments of Savoy converging from every road around. It became quite obvious that Charles Emmanuel had his own opinion about our _intentions_ concerning his lands, and was summoning his whole army around the Capital.

“Really, how can he be so naïve?” Schomberg tutted right behind me.

“Fear, General, divides a man's intelligence.” Was the low, deadpan answer he got from Richelieu.

I didn't dare to ponder too much about who else, exactly, he might have been talking about.

A few hours later as a moonless night fell on our camp and our men had almost finished their meal, all Officers quickly spread the order to pack up and move out as fast as possible, taking advantage of obscurity to hide our change of direction.

We abandoned the Duke in Turin to rush Southwest in the dark, heading straight to Pignerol instead.

Pignerol was the inevitable stronghold the Spanish would have to subdue to ensure themselves a safe passage through the Alps towards their Northern lands, and making this key fortress French meant isolating Phillippe III definitely. Armand's detour was intended to seize the citadel of the Alps along our way and make our approach towards Casal, though slightly delayed, _much more frightening. _

As Charles-Emmanuel had made quite sure the whole of Savoy was completely devoid of troops, Pignerol, isolated and empty, didn't last a single day.

The battle was an easy one. Pignerol had two hundred cannons aligned behind her ramparts, and not one man to handle them. Our casualties didn't rise higher than fifty, mostly in close combat against the miserable regiment stationed inside, after the four gates of the City had crumbled like paper under our own fire.

I would have counted twenty-five last year, but it's true, my troops were tired. _And God so was I._

Riding in front of my men through narrow breaches in defence walls has ignited the same spark, the same fire in me as it always has. I knew that feeling, I craved and cherished it.

It’s a hunger for war, lust for battlefields. It boils in my blood, it flows in my flesh.

_It’s the very stone the Bourbons are carved into._

But for the first time in my life, as I drew my sword and clashed it against the first blade that crossed my path, I felt my guts twisting in fear. Not for me, not at all. I'd be happy to live and die to the sounds of battlefields, and if this day was meant to be my last, I'd have thought myself a lucky man. No, the vicious dread crippling my every move was for the tall red frame riding at my side.

My dear Armand, brilliant and wise, is also just as fierce, just as brave as any other soldier of France, but to my utter dismay, he isn't half as skilled with a gun or a sword.

In all our years of fighting, I always felt a pang of dread watching him run under enemy fire right next to me, and never forgot to ensure he got all due protection, but it was a mere itch compared to the bottomless terror that blurred my sight in Pignerol.

Something was new. Something had changed.

It wasn't the fear of losing my Minister, my advisor, my servant, or even my friend anymore. It was the raw terror of losing my _everything._ The simple thought of him pierced by a dagger or a rapier, falling on the floor in a mess of white and red, made me whine aloud, and I put myself in useless danger because I stubbornly kept him within arm's reach at all times.

God, is it what it feels like to be in love, _is it so? _

Every surge of delight and emotion, you pay with the fear of losing it all?

I realised in horror, right there in the narrow streets of Pignerol, that with my cold and lonely years, my invulnerability had gone, that if Armand had made me whole, for that reason he made me _weak_.

For Heaven's sake we were twelve against one at most, the battle merely a question of principle, and yet I was twice as scared as if I had been alone in front of the whole army of Spain. The mindless fear of seeing him dead had been harsher on me than any soldier I crossed swords with that day, and merely minutes after we had dismounted to fence on foot, I yelled at him to step back behind our lines, because worry was driving me insane, or worse, _mediocre_.

He refused at first, begging me to let him fight at his King's side, and he didn't seem to understand the _state_ I was in until I grabbed his arm in the middle of the brawl and turned him towards me, my eyes boring into his.

“Armand, you _step back **now**_, or I swear to God I'll strike you down and _carry_ you there!”

He must have read the terror upon my face then, and beyond the sheer surprise of seeing me anxious for _him_, I sensed his mind weighing the advantages of him keeping up with a fight already won against those of relieving me from my panic.

It didn't last long.

He nodded weakly, lowering his sword. In the same heartbeat, I ordered Bassompierre to haul him up on his horse and ride to a safer place.

When I saw the General's steed disappearing behind our lines, I let out a ragged sigh of deliverance and turned to the City with a savage grin, delighted to find my hunger for blood untainted by fear at last.

I fought like an animal for the next hour, and the one after, I think. When the City commander sent a drummer boy to wave the white flag of surrender in front of us, I froze, dazed and staggering, dropping my sword upon a heap of rubble and dead bodies.

I was covered in glory once more.

_'Lift your hat, Marshal of France.'_

  
But God, I was so tired.

The rest went in a blur. I blinked a few times when Treville came up to me and praised my skill or my strength. I mumbled for the battlefield to be cleaned, I suppose, and blankly saluted the Mayor and the City commander coming to pay their respects.

All I remember was swearing to myself that Pignerol would be the last of Armand's direct battles. His mind was too unique, too precious to be lost against the lucky sword on an unskilled foot soldier, and I wasn't half the fighter I could be with that fear glued to my back.

I scheduled treaty negotiations for the next morning, and how I rode back to the camp, I can't recall.

I know that when I stepped foot on the ground, in front of my tent, I begged more than I ordered to stay undisturbed for three hours. The Officers gladly bowed down to that, and as I flapped the entrance closed behind me, my doublet torn and my sleeves bloodied, he was there, of course, half of his armour gone, but the red robes still in his trunks.

I unbuckled my baldric, let my weapons hit the floor with a loud clang, and, uncaring for the rest of the world, I grabbed his face and kissed him deeply.

He welcomed me for as long as I wanted, pliant and eager against me, and the warmth I felt there was a greater prize than the City Keys. _God, I never could watch him die._

Is it what it feels like to be in love?

Every surge of delight and emotion, you pay with the fear of losing it all.

“You're not letting me fight ever again, are you?” he breathed against my lips as I pulled back for air.

I didn't reply. There was no need, no need at all.

He had read me loud and clear up there in Pignerol, and Hell was he clever enough.

He frowned in disappointment, regret marring his soft features, and moved to turn away from me. I stopped him with a hand on his heart, left almost bare without his breastplate. I kept him close to me, my eyes on his sword laid down on his work table, and he followed my gaze naturally.

“You're a fighter, Armand,” I said to him. “The bravest of all, I swear. I don't even do that for you, I do that for myself. It's enough for me to know half of France is plotting your murder, really. I couldn't bear to see you stand right in front of an enemy's blade even if you were the best swordsman in the Kingdom.”

“Which I am not.” He whispered, his eyes cast on his weapon.

I winced. That's all. He understood. _He always does. _

He nodded, gulping in what seemed to be shame, but before I could mutter more reassurance, he sighed heavily, broke free from my grip and started to undo the ties of his vambraces.

“Very well.” He stated, determination once more cleansing his voice from sadness. “I shall do what I do best then.”

And he lifted his sword off the table to gather his books and start working. I rolled my eyes, _theatrical idiot. _I wanted to laugh at him, but I couldn't.

_I was so tired. _

“Help me out of this burden first, Armand,” I sighed, exhausted, and by the way he turned to me, I'm not sure he knew I meant the armour.

“Of course” he still breathed, rushing back to me and unbuckling the iron off my shoulders piece by piece.

Once free, I refused a bath and a clean chemise to collapse upon my bed as I was, disgusting with sweat and blood. I beckoned him closer, and he brought me wine, sitting on the floor right next to me as had turned into a habit by then. I drank, I talked, I have no idea about what. It doesn't matter.

At some point, the noise and voices outside faded. The whole universe shrunk until it contained nothing but my bed and candlelight into his silver hair. I stroked his smooth white cheek and said something nice about his eyes.

He smiled, radiant, genuine, his fingers locked around my wrist.

“_Moi Roi_.” he breathed.

_Louis - _my mind called for, but my eyes were already closing on their own will.

  
I fell asleep under his gentle stare, whole, and content as I had never hoped to be, victorious and acclaimed, safe from Paris and the torture of choice.

_God, I won't live without his warmth. _

Is it what it feels like to be in love?

Every surge of delight and emotion, you pay with the fear of losing it all.

_Every inch of his skin a thousand times worth the price._

***

That boudoir, I think I remember. It comes from far away, it comes from long before. It is the Louvre, and yet, it's not. It's all too dark for me to know. Someone is crying in the room, I don't see who, and so I call. Those hairbrushes on the dressing table, ivory laced with gold, where did I see them already?

Someone is crying, a woman, I think, I call, I call, no one answers.

I step around this messy bed I know the smell of, my fingers brushing the thick brocade covers, this shade of green, I know its name. It's all too dark for me to see.

Behind the bed, curled on the floor, a young woman is sobbing, her slender face in her both hands, her dark brown hair carelessly loose. She's almost naked, scrawny and shivering, with nothing more than rags on her shoulders, how strange to find her here, in this rich, luxurious room.

How miserable she looks, who wronged this young woman? I call, I call, she doesn't raise her head.

A low, bass voice thunders behind me then, breaking the shadows in pieces, snapping my heart in two.

“You have hurt your mother, son.”

I gasp and turn around, he's there, my father, wearing the coat he died into, the handle of a dagger still sticking out of his broad chest. There's blood on his mouth, there's blood on his hands, and he points at the woman, disappointment upon his brow.

“Didn't she give you life? Didn't she raise you well? Isn't family a sacred thing?”

The woman whines in the darkness, and those hairbrushes on the table, they're covered in thick white hair, they're covered in thick white dust.

No one lives in this boudoir anymore, and no one ever will.

I call, I call, I beg for forgiveness, but she only lifts her face up to me, and she's everything those old portraits displayed of her, that young Florentine with pearly teeth and cheery lips. She's everything her portraits show, except that gaping hole where her beating heart used to be.

It isn't dark enough for me not to notice her blood, dear God, her blood upon my own hands.

“What did you hurt your mother for, my son?” My father says, pale as a sheet, standing so proud. “Was it for him, how could it be?” 

He turns around then, pointing at the windows, where I see outside the Louvre's Courtyard, where a dozen Royal Guards are scattering away, leaving on the ground a blurry heap of flesh and silk.

A blurry heap of blood-red silk.

“Armand!” I call, but his blood already pools around the cobblestones, just as Concini's once did, in those same small square patterns.

I call, I call, no one answers.

It's all too dark for me to know.

“You're all alone, my son, don't you see? You're all alone, always have been.”

“Armand!”

_“Armand!”_

I wake up in a start, my throat still clenched around the name. I blink a few times, looking for the shadows of the boudoir, the silhouette of my father. But no one greets me except a yellow hue of sunlight and the blue fabric of the Royal military tent. I'm in my bed. My shirt still smells of yesterday's battle.

Yesterday's victory.

Pignerol. _God, yes, Pignerol._

I get up shaking and give a sharp pull to the curtain on my left. Armand's bed is empty.

I stumble outside, then, desperate to meet anyone alive and hear a voice without judgment.

When I step out of the tent, the harsh southern sun makes me groan in pain, wincing away from blinding light. I catch a glimpse of thin mountain grass and granite rock beneath my feet.

I hear, seconds later at most, three sounds of footsteps running up to me.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

I lift my hand above my eyes and squint against the sun. Bassompierre clasps his hand around my arm, his friendly face inspecting mine. Behind him, Treville is already looking around, looking for a foe to hunt and kill. Schomberg next to him looks quite confused, a half-eaten slice of bread still lingering in his hand.

“I – I was...” I almost stutter, _no_, _come on, calm down_.

I straighten my back, rubbing the last shadows of dream off my eyes with shaky fingertips, and sweep a braver gaze around the chain of white mountains encircling the vanquished citadel.

“Where is the Cardinal?” I grumble instead.

Treville points his thumb over his shoulder at a small table set downhill in the middle of the camp under a canopy of light velvet, where a tall figure in red observes two men as they sign a wide document. Both men step away and bow, handing the paper-sheet to him, and he has a slight tilt of his head, graceful as ever, speaking a few words I can't hear.

He swiftly turns around and climbs up the bank, noticing the four of us only halfway there. I think he frowns and hastens his pace.

When he comes close, I can't refrain myself for checking him for wounds, as if those Royal Guards could have stepped out of my nightmare somehow to murder him in my own camp. But God, no, he's fine, he's triumphant, the Southern sun upon his silver hair tamed and subdued into paying nothing more than a discrete tribute.

He examines me with narrowed eyes without a word. Before he asks the question I don't want to answer, I hiss at the drying ink on the letter between his fingers.

“What's this?”

“The treaty making Pignerol French and loyal to your Crown, Your Majesty.” He gently says, rolling the document in a thin tube. “Already signed by the City Mayor, and for you to approve in your own time.”

With that, he delicately places the roll into my hand and gives me the most elegant bow that could be performed in an army camp perched on a rocky mountainside after three years of continuous war.

_'I shall do what I do best' he said. _I want to kiss his neck once more.

I spin around on a grunt and order for breakfast instead, heading back to our tent without a glance for the others. He follows me with silent, obedient strides.

While I wash myself in a basin, scrubbing at patches of dried blood upon my arms, cursing my laziness of last evening, he carefully picks up the treaty I abandoned on a chair and goes to his working table to retrieve no less than ten similar sheets, all covered in handwriting.

“When your Majesty will have the time, also,” he humbly starts, sliding near me with his stack of papers in his arms. “Here is an overview of the main focus points of inside and outside politics you should have in mind while considering our army's next move.”

My sponge makes a dull wet noise as I drop it in the basin's brownish water to glare, incredulous, at the heap of documents he presents me. Droplets drip from my soaked hair right into my eyes. I don't even blink them away.

“You wrote _all this_ last night?” I rasp.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he nods, “but in my defence, those were things I've been keeping in mind for quite some time.”

I shake my head. _He's barking mad, that's all he is. _

I grab a towel and dry myself, grabbing a clean chemise that I throw on my shoulders. As the lieutenant brings me a tray of eggs and bread, I tilt my head at the working table and order Armand to clear it from his mess.

“I'll read your _literature_ while I eat,” I grunt.

He quickly complies, his wide robes rustling around his waist as he gathers his papers and disposes of them back in his trunks. Sighing loud enough to make myself clear, I still sit at the table, picking up my first slice of bread with one hand, and the first page of his work in the other.

There's nothing I want less than a review of continent-wide _politics_ right now, but I forbid him to go into battle for the rest of his days less than a day ago, and I can't just mock the rest of his duties now.

The first pages I merely glance over, I must admit because if state business is tiresome enough in times of peace, it's almost impossible to focus on it while I'm at war. But as his writing unfolds, my wine is neglected, and my eggs grow cold, my eyes nailed upon his straight, regular lines of script.

_Dear God, everything's there. _

From a frighteningly accurate account of the royal treasury, discouraging, to say the least, to a long, exhaustive list of all the riots, plots, alliances and rebellion in the Kingdom, ordered by Province, then by name, everything's there.

From a meticulous review of the funds still needed to prevent the German empire from striking us down to a desolating summary of the rampage done by plague and dysentery among France's stationed troops and population, everything's there.

From the perspective of the negotiations our future colonies would require to disgusting news about the latest intrigues of my own Court, everything's there.

After one hour of reading, I've seen the whole thing twice, and my eggs have dried up on my plate. I slowly lift my eyes up to him. He's waiting, patient and reserved, sitting on his bed with a map upon his lap.

That one, I could swear, is that old map of Europe I like so much, covered in both our handwriting.

_'I shall do what I do best' he said. _

The clever beast, he _works_ alright.

I inhale a shaky breath.

“What are you trying to tell me, Armand?” I ask, annoyed at my own turmoil, giving his overview a grumpy flick. “That the situation inside our borders is too worrisome to advance further into Italy? That I should just turn my heels and run back to Paris?”

He joins his hands upon his map, biting his lips while he picks his words, and subtly shakes his head.

“Your Majesty, I just wish your next decision to be as enlightened as can be. I have no desire to push you in one direction or the other. It's merely my duty to let you know at what price the pursuing of this war would be.”

_So that's it, wicked snake? If you can't fight, then no one can? _

I want to spit it at his face, I swear I do, but I meet his wide eyes before, and I swallow my bile with a dry gulp. Those eyes have never lied to me, not once, not ever. I know_, I know_, he did spend the whole night working while I slept to remind me of everything France is to this day, ardent and bold in his duties because he truly thought that was the right thing to be done.

His endless days, his sleepless nights.

This man is never moved by vanity or pride. If he has a purpose, it's always been the same.

History being written, dreams coming closer.

_Both our names entwined upon pages of future history. _

France, God, and the sacred image that encompasses both in his brilliant, unsteady mind.

_Me. _

My gaze falls back on his memoir. I blindly reach for my wine and drown a whole cup.

Every word he wrote is true. Corruption, misfortune and schemes threaten to swallow France further into darkness with every day I spend away from the Louvre. We both have worked so hard, Armand and I, to force life into a State that didn't even exist, we can't just abandon it to be gnawed at by vermin.

I should go back, I should take care.

But right here, on the other hand, Savoy is waiting to be taken like a ripe fruit upon its tree.

The new of Pignerol’s defeat will fall on Charles-Emmanuel like a hammer, and this man is nothing short of a coward. He'll give me Turin with a smile and a Te Deum, too afraid I'd start pillaging his entire duchy like the wild wolf he thinks I am. Right here, right now, I have thirty thousand men ready for war camping at my feet, and those soldiers have been drinking our enemy's tears with every meal for three whole years.

Right here, I have reckless Bassompierre, mighty Schomberg and brave Treville, willing more than anything to free their comrade Toiras from Spain's treacherous grasp.

I have _Armand_, skilful and bright, watching me with feverish adoration, and as long as we're both far from Paris, nothing can destroy the warmth we share.

Dear God, can I live one day free from the burden of decision?

I am the last of the Bourbons, there is a law for every breath I take.

I lean back into my chair with a painful groan and bury my face in my hands.

Every word he wrote is true, I should go back, I should take care.

But France, our dearest France, has seen so much worse than the meddling of those lowlifes. Her back has been broken by the weight of adversity since the beginning of my bloodline, and yet, every year, her arms spread wide, filled with plentiful crops and rare treasures, her heart full of joy, her belly filled with children.

Besides, I know what's waiting for me in Paris, in this soiled palace of lies.

In the thick, filthy air of these corridors dwells the fury of my mother, and the dreadful things it will inescapably force from my hands. Prison, exile, her tears in her trembling hands, _dear God, I am her son._

_'Isn't family a sacred thing?'_

Oh, father, please forgive me.

_'What did you hurt your mother for, my son?'_

Oh, father, please understand.

When I'm with him, my name has meaning, the world falls into place. I am King, at last, my Crown justified, my glories untainted. When I'm with him, I'm unstoppable, he's the flame forging my legacy.

My Beast, my delight, my fighter, my love.

_My one, my only love. _

“War is a sinful thing.” I sigh into my palms like a man in mourning. “War is a wild hunt. It's an atrocious thing to inflict on both soldiers and civilians, but then again, it's never done without reason.”

I drop my hands on the table, distractedly playing with my glass and I add, my eyes lost between the lines of his writing, “There is a reason why we're here, Cardinal, but we can't expect everyone to understand it. People will complain, they always do, and lesser men will carry on scheming against the future we think is best. But meanwhile here in Savoy, we'll be writing a stronger France with our enemies' own blood, and in that France, everyone will be able to thrive.”

I turn to him then, resolute, and watch him listen in awe to what might be the most fervent speech I ever gave him.

“I’d rather force further war upon my country than let it crumble under the weight of the Spanish, cut in pieces, province by province, reduced to nothing. There will never be a proper State or a satisfied people of France, Armand, if there is no France left at all.”

He gets up, slowly, our map of Europe into his hands, his wide red robes pooling around his feet, and I would pay half of my wealth just to have a painting of this moment.

“We're moving to Turin tomorrow at dawn,” I speak, final.

He bows, magnificent and docile, my Red Beast tamed forevermore.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He says, a bit breathless maybe, and leaves the tent to carry out my order.


	6. May the 15th 1630,  Town of Argentine, The French Alps.

Savoy was conquered in ten days, Turin given to us by a terrified Charles-Emmanuel before my army was even done setting camp around it. I was barely installed in the Officers tent with my general staff, deciding between a siege and an assault, when we heard the strident sound of a small horn being forcefully blown outside.

We got out, exasperated, to face a messenger from the Duke carrying a letter of surrender so intricate and long I suspected it of having been written _in advance._

I threw the paper on the ground in sheer frustration, because I had been wanting to see Charles-Emmanuel sweating in front of my blade quite a lot these last months.

_Coward. _

Nothing short of a coward.

Sickened, I let Armand conduct the treaty negotiations by himself. I hid myself in my tent and slept for five whole days before he called me to sign the definitive papers, and even then, _even then,_ I was still feeling worn-out. There was a low, rumbling worry growing in my guts about this fatigue not being fatigue at all but I kept quiet.

  
I was at war. He was there with me.

We were _unstoppable_, and so we had to remain.

Armand slid into his trunk the treaty that made the whole of Savoy French, and the army prepared to march to Casal at last. Ten hours later I was jumping on my horse, delighted, when I saw one more messenger riding fast towards us. I wondered, then, if God wanted us to see that generous Citadel of the south again in this life or not. The rescue of dear Toiras had been delayed long enough.

And yet, this wasn’t another feathery puppet sent by Savoy to plead for his cause, it was young Mazarini, wearing the colours of the Holy Pope, and Armand seemed to think him worthy of our time.

The Nonce dismounted, out of breath, waving a safe-conduct signed by Urbain himself, and if I think he knelt in front of Richelieu more than in front of me, I let it pass without a frown. He told us that two delegations from both the Vatican and Spain had arrived in Lyon to meet us. Forty diplomats, no less, were claiming they had propositions for an international peace that could end the Valteline wars once and for all.

“Well, those men have horses, don’t they?” I spat, spinning around towards the troops. “They can meet me on my way to Casal.”

But I was stopped by Armand’s humble grip around my ankle, of course, and he whispered something about the diplomatic _conundrum_ of forty Spanish and Italian representatives crossing the Alps on unstable land to try and join me as I ride to pursue a war they wish me to abort. I clenched my teeth, my eyes into his once more finding reason and wisdom there.

He was right, of course, he was. _He always is. _

“I’ll look like I don’t want peace at all, won’t I?” I grumbled.

He had a small, helpless tilt of his head. I groaned.

“Besides, Your Majesty,” he meekly added, “if their propositions happen to be profitable for us, we could negotiate the Spanish army away from Casal without having to march there.”

It wasn't my way to end a war at all. It wasn't like me. I’d rather have ended it with thirty thousand blades and ballistae. I was tired of circling around Casal for years and never actually fighting for it.

But in my defence, I was tired. _Full stop._

So I nodded my consent with a shrug, ordering the lieutenants to prepare an escort of a hundred men for the Cardinal and I. I refused to step off my horse though, running around the troops until the very last moment, boiling in rage at the idea of leaving my men. I named Schomberg as acting commander, but since he was just as frustrated as I was, I don’t think he even thanked me.

I only paused to growl at the circle of mountains around us, glorious under the quiet light of early spring, eating gently at the soft skies, radiating with a thousand perfumes, and the rare, unmistakable smell of lucerne. I wanted those lands, I wanted them mine, and _my war_ had been delayed for long enough.

When Armand told me the escort was ready, I reviewed it in the same breath, and frowned at the two army physicians I found among the hundred soldiers. The Red Beast used soothing words to tell me it was just a precaution, but I knew that worried stare of his, and the fact that I never could hide a thing from him enraged me to no end. I snarled, ordering the physicians to stay with the troops where they belonged. He looked like he could have argued, so I hissed him away and spurred my horse forward.

“I’m fine, Cardinal.” I barked.

I saw him bite his lips, but he can always recognise my last word when he hears it.

We arrived in Lyon by the end of April, crossing the Pas de Suse faster still without the rest of the troops. Mazarini never rode more than two yards away from Richelieu, pleading and whispering to him whenever he could. I suppose the Nonce had orders not to divulge the Pope’s propositions before Lyon, but his true loyalty was painfully obvious, and I guess he spit it out quite fast.

By the look on the Red Beast’s stern, closed face, it seemed Urbain’s offerings weren’t worth a second look, and as we dismounted in Pierre Encise, no matter how sumptuous, how magnificent their welcome had been, we understood soon enough the Spanish ones weren’t any better.

Olivares’ envoy proposed for us to keep Pignerol and Suze, along with a part of Savoy, but Casal had to be surrendered to the Spanish with a sworn oath to never covet that city again. In short, Olivares was demanding something of mine in exchange for something that wasn’t his.

I swear to God they heard me _roar_ far beyond the walls of Pierre Encise.

Armand rushed to my side, trying to smooth the rough edges, but the fact that the Spanish were staring at him as if he was the devil incarnate or some embodiment of plague on Earth, didn’t help at all.

I thought he would be hurt by those hateful, horrified looks at first. I expected him to recoil away and bite on his tears, his own anxious heart only strengthening the idea of him being a monster.

But what I saw, in fact, was him _using their fear_, leaning towards the delegates with narrowed eyes and honeyed voice, making his gestures slithering, his speech sardonic. He made them step back and gulp on their words in minutes, and I bit on a smile of sheer pride, _how confident he felt_, invincible, unquestionable, ready to tear nations apart with the strength of his resolve.

He was at his best, his wits and his presence more frightening than any siege force.

Heartened, maybe, by the feel of my kisses lingering on his skin.

He’s wonderful when he feels safe. At my side, he thrives, _in my arms, he blooms. _

The negotiations choked on a dead end after three and a half hours. Lost in the middle of annoyed or angry faces, Mazarini was the only one smiling, because no matter the outcome of the discussion, Richelieu had promised him an audience in Paris once I had “reclaimed my menaced lands”, and as I ordered for fresh horses to be prepared for us, he only felt that coming closer.

I didn’t dwell on politeness. I only wanted to leave this dark, tepid Castle, that's all. I never liked this wretched place.

I was enjoying at least, as a redeeming feature of that messy waste of time, the sight of my Armand sovereign and poised right next to me as we strode outside, but like every beauty of this world, it was doomed to wither.

A letter from Paris was brought to me before I left, and the large seal on the envelope was enough to smother all confidence in his wide eyes.

Marillac, newly appointed Lord Chancellor by the grace of the Queen Regent. The General who wouldn't go to war. _The traitor to my name. _

Armand gasped and froze on our way to the stables, his hands on his heart, his fingers already twitching to be bitten. I slowed down, staring at him, appalled at how fast this man's mind could spiral up or down. He had made forty delegates shiver in terror less than one hour before, and now I could hear the storm over his seawall, already howling, _already screeching. _

God, this sickness, it's going to kill him someday.

I tried a comforting nod, beckoning him to follow as I resumed my walk, and tore the envelope with as much nonchalance as I could. He did move forward again but remained cautiously five steps behind my back.

Marillac, obsequious and bland, was announcing to me that Queen Anne had been bedridden four days ago, seized by violent pain in her belly. After thirty hours of suffering, a loss of blood and a '_tiny but unmistakable amount of flesh_' betrayed another miscarriage.

The fourth in five years.

I closed my eyes upon a surge of pure wrath but forced myself to keep on walking, my pace unchanged, because if my step had faltered, Armand would have been impossible to calm down.

The Spanish mare's belly was nothing more than a cemetery. For all that I knew she could have stabbed or poisoned her own child to death, just to make sure I was still heirless when I'd die at war. For all I knew she could have been already blushing at Gaston's advances, making plans for a brighter future with him, my dear Mother looming above her shoulder, I was sure, whispering sound advice in her attentive ears.

The Louvre, this palace of lies, corrupted by filth.

The rest of the letter was nothing more than fake compassion and disgusting praise, this arrogant piece of crap having the nerve to interpret Anne's miscarriage as a sign that _'God didn't want me there at war but back in Paris where I belonged.'_

Gutless pompous _bastard_.

I'll lock you up in Vincennes the first chance I get.

When we arrived at the stable, sturdy horses were waiting for us, and I turned to Armand. He was still lingering five yards behind, eyeing the letter in my hand as if it could burst into flames and burn him alive. There was a silent plea for reassurance in his wild stare, and since sweet words will never be my speciality, I simply gestured him close, offering my hand to help him on his horse. As he leapt on the stallion's back effortlessly, I gave his trembling fingers a tender squeeze, my thumb circling upon his palm once or twice.

He knew me well enough for it to suffice. His anguished frown eased away, and when I handed him the letter for him to read, he took it without too much of a shudder. His eyes flew through Marillac's worthless writing for a minute, and he folded the letter twice to hide it in his ample robes. His face had barely twitched.

He laid down a warm knowing glance on me as simply whispered, “Don't lose hope, Your Majesty.”

I huffed a bitter sigh, ready to roll my eyes at him, but he really seemed to trust my fate, and that man isn't known to be easily fooled. So I nodded sternly, hopped on my own horse, and yelled for my suite to ride back to Turin. As I pulled my reins towards the Alps under a burning July sun, I felt it for the first time, I think.

  
_That surge of pain into my guts. _

I knew it all along. That fatigue wasn't fatigue at all.

I ignored it at first, distracted by anger, counting the time I had lost because of this comedy of a peace negotiation. But as I rode upon those winding paths of granite and dust once more, it grew from a mere twitch to a burning grip of nausea, and I felt cold sweat dripping down my back. Armand wasn't leaving my side for a second, and I admit I have been tempted to let out at least a small moan, enough for him to understand because he always finds a solution to everything. Especially this kind of problem, since he's sick all the time.

Yet, I didn’t utter a sound, because I felt stupid enough as things were. Armand did plead for us making a detour for this diplomatic meeting in the first place, it’s true, but in fact, who sent back the_ two skilled physicians _he had the foresight to bring along?

Cursed pride. It serves me well.

I was quite successful at hiding my pain all for the first two stage camps, but on the third, I couldn't seem to stand completely straight, hunched forward by the constrictions of my own guts. I think I had paled too, and of course, Armand noticed. He started to hover closer to me, passing furtive, but clever hands upon my forehead, brushing my shirt, watching my hands.

I hissed him away, claiming I was fine, but as I said, that man isn't known to be easily fooled.

And now, as evening falls on the fifth day of our return trip, that pain is almost breaking me in two, worrying Armand to _tears. _I don't address the issue. I avoid his touch, evade his stare, _‘it will pass,’_ I tell him. _It will pass. _

I need to join the army. Set it in motion towards Casal. That city is mine, always has been.

Toiras is there, hoping for me, undoubting, faithful, and for God's sake, I owe him that. I'll burn those Spaniards until the last one, and I'll have a castle behind those walls built in my own name. I'll have a room prepared for Armand there, in the colours he seems to like. I'll join him late at night, and I'll kiss him until he whimpers. _I told you_, I'll say to him then, glorious in victory once more, _I told you it would pass. _

A sharp twist of agony tears a brief cry out of my throat, and I lean forward on my horse. His hand instantly comes to grab my arm, and our skins have no secrets for each other. His face crumbles into a paler shade. He knows. He always does.

“_Mon Roi_.” He breathes, panicked, but I shake my head.

Not a word. The Camp, Casal. We end this war, that's all we do.

  
The whimper I didn't want to let out escapes from his own mouth. He lifts his glassy eyes up to the skies, as if to search for something there, and passes a nervous hand on his lips. His other hand never leaving my arm, he turns around on his horse and speaks a few words to one of the soldiers behind us. He's not part of the regiment I chose as escort, but Armand insisted upon bringing him along. I think it's because the man was born somewhere around here.

“It's over that hill, Generalissime.” The brave man says, pointing at a rounded slope of land to our left. “Not two miles away.”

Richelieu nods, leaning towards me and whispering in a tense, but resolved voice, “Hold on, Your Majesty. There's a village over there, and they have a local physician who's quite skilled with herbs.”

I roll my eyes, a mountainside bonesetter brewing grogs in a hut, that’s what you’re offering me?

But then again, _who sent back the physicians? _

I nod and spur my horse.

The village is called Argentine and is nothing more than a sturdy church surrounded by six farms. The smell of wildflowers is just as fierce, just as bold as anywhere else in the Alps, but there's a small lake there, bringing in a soft breeze, making sunlight and altitude a little more lenient on the senses. The whole place is stuck in a tight valley, and along a rocky path fighting through the bramble, the local man guides us to the thickest building of the town. They told me there had been a castle there once, destroyed a hundred years ago, every stone of it used to build this house instead.

As if I cared. The inside of my cheeks are bleeding. I’ve been biting them to muffle my screams for hours by now.

It will pass. It has to pass. I need to get moving. I want this City, I want this war. Away from choice, _unstoppable_.

I vaguely watch, as I dismount, a fat, red-faced man running outside to meet us, panting like a dog, shock, and disbelief written on his rough features. Armand is already walking towards him with our local man to start discrete negotiations, so I suppose Fat Dog is in charge of those sixty acres of nowhere.

Around us, the village is quickly gathering, and from the crowd a low murmur rises in the air, echoing upon the pine-covered mountainsides. What I hear of it is mostly questioning. I don’t think anyone in this forlorn valley actually knows what their King looks like.

Do they know if they're French or Savoy, _do they even care? _

By the feverish agitation of Fat Dog, as he bows low enough to break his back, I guess at least that one does.

I’m pushed inside quite quickly, and I don’t really look around. Making myself look almost alright takes all the breath I have. They have me sit in the mayor’s reception room, which looks like it’s mostly used for holidays celebrations and harvest balls. The four walls are covered with folded canopies and overturned banquet tables, and there is straw on the floor.

Well, fine by me. The Louvre might be cleaner, it's still filled with a fouler kind of grime.

The Mayor, Gontrand _something_ I think, runs outside for the medicine man, and Richelieu starts building a fence around us, placing our escort all over the house, pushing back the crowd, silencing the whispers. A lieutenant helps me out of my travelling clothes, and I am served wine by a terrified red-haired girl of fifteen at most. She's plain, but still pretty. I throw her a short smile, but my shirt is drenched in cold sweat, and I don’t think it gives my cheerfulness much credit. She runs away without a bow. I don’t think women even learn to bow around here. Good.

The wine is excellent. _Even better._

Armand is waiting at the door, glancing at me over his shoulder from time to time with growing anguish, and I see him torturing his fingers once more. He's still holding out, but beyond the seawall, the storm is rumbling, _oh_ _calm down for God’s sake_.

It will pass. _It has to. _

I want war. Those cursed lands _owe it to me._

A nameless clerk approaches, babbling questions about the things I would require, and I’m about to growl that I just _require_ to be out of this hellhole by sunset when the tall red frame strides close, dragging Fat Dog, and a smaller, black-clad man in his footsteps. Gontrand introduces him as the town physician, but the tiny old man, pushing a banquet table towards me and dropping a huge leather pouch upon it, rectifies him with a stern voice.

“Herbalist.”

_Oh, great. _

I look above the medicine man’s shoulder towards Armand with a clear intention to snarl at this whole nonsense, but my anger drowns once more as I see distress ravaging the embers of anthracite. Alright. Let’s not pour oil on that fire, shall we?

I lay down my glass of wine next to the herbalist’s pouch and nod for the short man.

He looks seventy at least, but who knows with this mountain folk, it could be twenty years less, or twenty years more. He has a thick, impressive moustache, and eyes as clear as the waters of that lake nearby. His hands are as gnarled as the roots of an olive tree, speckled with brown and yellow stains. He smells like sage and chicory and doesn’t seem to care the slightest bit about who I am or am not.

He calls for a basin, and it is brought by the same fearful maiden that served me wine. The man dips acacia leaves in the hot water and washes his hands twice while looking at me with his narrow, mountain spring eyes. Then, before I know it he’s looming over me, his fingertips pinching around my eyes to inspect their colour, and I jump in outrage, _who does he think he- **Ah!**_

The quick move has me yelling in pain, crumbling forward and gripping my guts, _o__h Lord, it hurts._ It’s like the arrow I took in Montauban, only worse, because this agony, it’s everywhere, it’s nowhere, and there isn’t even a bruise on my skin.

I sit there panting for a while, my vision blurred, my throat clenched.

Then, as I blink the fog away, I see Armand white as a sheet, biting hard into his thumb. Behind him, five soldiers look like they could leap upon the physician and slit his throat, but the Red Man just lifts a shaking, abused finger to keep them at bay, his eyes fixed upon mine. _My decision._

Alright, calm down, breathe in, breathe out, focus.

I slowly sit back in my chair, gritting my teeth, gauging the old man. His face remains unmoved, his bright blue stare, solid as those mountains around, eyeing me down like a rare kind of fallen bird. Somehow, the Mayor’s bass voice rises in between us, begging the herbalist for a scrap of etiquette.

“Gantier, this is your _King_.”

“He doesn’t need me for my grovelling.” The man hisses, and though crushed by waves of pain, I still let out a small chuckle.

Point taken. I gesture for the man to proceed.

He leans down again, gentler, and presses a hand against my neck. He mutters something under his breath, curses I think, and opens the front of my shirt like he’d cut a rabbit open. He inspects my stomach, then my sides, squeezing and pushing along the way, frowning at my gasps of unease, or full screams of pain.

At the end of it, he looks up worried, laying an index on my bottom lip.

“Open up.”

The mayor gasps in horror, but I comply without a word. There is no arrogance, no ignorance in this man. He’s right, after all, he’s right. I am nothing more than a human being in pain.

_Sickness takes all men just the same._

He takes a close look at my tongue, I suppose, and releases me with a nod.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

  
“Five days.” I sigh.

Armand behind him jumps in surprise, looking at me in raw guilt and horror, _oh_ _calm down for God’s sake, look at the state of you, can’t you see why I didn’t tell you a thing? _

Gantier ponders for a while, rummaging in his pouch. He pulls out two corked bottles, and empties half of each in my wine, gesturing for me to drink up. Again, the mayor whines. Again, I do as I’m told.

I’d execute the first courtier who addresses me like that it’s true, but trust me, Fat Dog, your medicine man has more truth in him than anyone in Paris right now. Besides, it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.

  
The pain, it has to go. _I want that City. _

“I’ll come back in two hours with a better decoction.” The herbalist grumbles while packing his things. “Until then, eat nothing solid and do not even think of getting on a horse.”

I shoot him a heavy look but empty my cup with a nod.

With that, the tiny man rushes away, and I’m left heaving on my chair, the taste of honey and herbs still acute on my tongue, the pain cut in half for the first time in days. Fat Dog offers his rooms for me to rest and with that, I might give the man the first second of my undivided attention,_ now that's a good_ _attitude. _

His apartments don’t even have the comfort of my military tent, but there’s a bed, and that’s all I want for now. The walls, so thick they kept the room fresh while it’s scorching hot outside, are made of those ancient castle stones indeed, each one with a story to tell, and I like the idea.

As I step into the bedroom, dismissing the mayor who’s been following me like a fly, I notice the same maid waiting for us there, pulling the sheets into order. I give her a better smile, and she timidly steps forwards, asking for the honour of washing my shirt. I accept, discarding my clothes and handing out the linen to her. I could be tempted to brag a little because at least someone here looks in awe for her King, but I’m tired, I’m shivering, and I reek of cold sweat. So I just ask for a basin of warm water and let her go, taking sluggish steps back until my calves hit the bed.

I let myself fall sitting there and do not move an inch anymore.

The maid, triumphant with my shirt clenched tight against her chest, passes the Red Beast on her way out, and I watch her with wonder as she flashes him a candid smile. She truly has no idea of who he is.

He should find it refreshing, but of course, there's only anguish and rumbling storms in his wide eyes. He walks in and locks the door, rushing to me straight away in a whirl of red waves. He doesn't take my hands, he doesn't even talk, he just collapses on his knees in front of me upon the floor, grips the fabric of my pants with shaking fingertips and lays his forehead on my thigh _sobbing_.

I look up to the Heavens, this sickness he has, _it will kill him someday. _

“For God's sake, Armand,” I breathe down to him. “I'm not dying.”

But he only shakes his head, crying desperately upon my thigh. Though I know, now, that I prefer him peaceful, I still remember how beautiful the sound of his tears has always been. How soft, how delicate. I'm almost tempted to close my eyes and listen, but I can't be that man anymore, he offered me my own future.

I am more than my anger.

_I am in love. _

I lift a hand to stroke his hair, muttering sweet nothings until the sobs recede, letting my fingers play with a detail of his collar. It takes time, and patience I don’t think I truly have, but gradually the shaking ceases, and a few coherent words find their way out of his throat.

“It's all my fault.” He lets out. “I should have found a way to know Spain and the Pope's propositions were worthless. I should have insisted, at least for one physician, I should-”

“Don't flatter yourself.” I cut in with a gentle pull on his silver locks. “I still make all decisions here, and the choices I made are mine alone.”

His grip on my pants tighten a little, but his ragged breathing evens out. I huff a sigh of satisfaction.

_Yes, I do like him content. _

'Chin up,' I'd like to say, 'I want a kiss after I'm cleaned,' but before I open my mouth, pain rushes back into my guts in a brutal wave and all I can utter is a low, screeching sound. He instantly jumps up, crawling away from me as if his touch itself had put me in pain, _no, come back, _but I cannot speak. I just fall sideways on the bed, arms crossed over my stomach, struggling for air.

It's like the arrow on Montauban. Except it's worse. It's so much worse. _God, it hurts. _

My skin is drenched in sweat, the bedsheets stick to my side so tight it's disgusting, but I just look up at him, because he plastered his hands against his mouth, and I almost see in his glassy eyes the seawall breaking into pieces.

I clench my jaw, then, forcing myself back up with one arm, the other still gripped around my stomach. I cannot be weak. Not in front of him. Not now, not ever. _I am his Master. _

“It's fine, Armand.” I manage to whine. “Calm down. I'm stronger than this.”

With that, to my sheer surprise, he only nods weakly, and what he just rasped between his fingers, I could swear it was _“I know.”_

“What's wrong, then?” I croak, leaning towards him, trying to sound vexed, but looking exhausted at best.

He doesn’t reply, he slides further away instead, his eyes clouded by madness, his brilliant mind spinning out of control, overflown by dark visions. In his retreat, his back bumps against a high shelf, making him jolt out of it, and he runs to the window to hide his face against the sun.

I follow him with narrow eyes. He can hide, but I know him by now. I know every twitch of him. I sense his heartbeat, I smell his terror, even from where I sit. Even from miles apart.

“_Armand,_” I growl, warning, definite, because though it makes my heart sink, I know him by now, and _I think I understand. _

I know that nightmare, I know that shadow. That last ominous storm in our painfully earned skies.

He turns his head slightly towards me, his frightened stare still lost through the mountains outside, and he mutters cautiously as if his words themselves could gather crows above our heads.

“She'll have my _blood_ if she learns one more war I designed has put your health in danger.”

I close my eyes, exhale slowly, of course, _of course. _Even here, even now. It's not me he's afraid of. It's her, _again. _

A rush of raw fear threatens to smother my own heart, because I'm more than aware how she could _use_ my returning from war on the brink of death once more, but as a knock on the door announces the basin I asked for, I find the strength to hammer, word by word, as I could slide a pawn forward upon a map of war forces.

“Marie de Medici is only Regent, Armand, and France still has a King.”


	7. June the 29th 1630, Castle of Pierre Encise, Lyon.

I was wrong.

I was so, _so wrong. _

Pain is all I have become, and at this time tomorrow, _there will be a King no more._

I let my nails scratch the thick coverlet on my bed, the sound of brocade hissing under my fingers as the only hint that the world is still real. The room is dark, always has been, the narrow windows so far away they reveal nothing more than a small spot of lonely skies. I never liked this wretched place.

The barren walls of Pierre Encise.

These worn-out tapestries, this ancient furniture, this thick oak bed, everything’s the same. I was there with Armand, rolling in the sheets with strength and bliss, seven months ago no more, seven months ago I swear. He was lying right there, his silver hair drawing miraculous brushstrokes of light in this dim corner of the universe, his arms locked around my neck, his hips grinding against mine.

‘Your Majesty’ He moaned.

_Louis_ , my lips mouthed against his, _oh, I should have asked him, how I should have. _Armand will never speak my name by now.

I squint at the grey skies above Lyon, but even those I can’t see clearly. My own hair is glued to my eyes with sweat and grime, and I'm not able to lift my own hands anymore. I want to call, I have no breath.

I want to cry, I have no tears. I lie there open-mouthed and white, only darkness still at my side.

Armand isn’t there.

Pain is all I have become; my own light has left me, and at this time tomorrow, _there will be a King no more. _

I remember Argentine, as I washed myself in the basin, gasping at the wonders pure mountain water was doing on my shuddering skin. Armand was watching me, still hidden against the sun, leaning on the wall as if the sight of him could have been poisonous to me.

There were words, I am sure, struggling to get out of our throats, but all we did was stare at each other in an unbearable whirl of worry and fear, both our mouths still shut by the shadow of my mother.

When Gantier came back with another potion, the Red Beast hadn’t moved, locked away in grim silence and troubled stares. I drank the herbalist’s medicine. It tasted surprisingly sweet and might have pushed away the pain for a while once more. Gantier told me he'd come back three times until midnight to give me the same amount.

“With that, Your Majesty,” he stated, _oh, titles now,_ I thought “By tomorrow morning you’ll either be fine or dying.”

Armand whimpered.

I just nodded.

Relieved from agony, but still shivering, I laid down in the bed as the herbalist muttered his leave, and though I kept looking at the tall red frame, it remained stubbornly stuck to that window, unwilling to step closer, unable to walk out.

That nightmare, that shadow, spoiling again the warmth we shared, even there, _even then. I’d curse her blood if it weren’t my own. _

Even if I was upset to be deprived of the comfort of his obedience, I succumbed to exhaustion soon enough. I was woken up from my troubled slumber one first time by Gantier knocking on the door. I looked for my Red Beast straight away, and I found him just as he was before, only sitting on a plain chair by the window, without a look for the deep orange sunset over the mountains.

His tired, worn-out eyes were only for me.

I let the herbalist in and drank one more glass of his potion. The pain receded a little more, and heartened by that relief, despite nightmares or dark omens, as Gantier closed the door on his way out I called for Armand. He didn’t even twitch, the mist of insanity ravaging his stare, and even in decaying light, I could see clearly enough the streams of blood upon the skin of his fingers.

The seawall was broken.

I wanted to shout, I wanted to growl, _don't you dare destroy yourself under my eyes, mother is in Paris, for God's sake, and _ _ **I** _ _ am right here_. I wanted to get up and drag him to my bed by the throat, I swear, but there must have been a sleeping-draught in those herbs because I don't remember anything after that.

I recall Gantier's third and last cup of medicine. Night had fallen completely, only a few candles were lit in the bedroom, but by Armand's crumpled silhouette, and the scattered muttering coming from his mouth, it was painfully obvious he didn't sleep at all, tortured and persecuted by the voices in his head.

_The seawall was ruined._

The draught made me dizzy again, but I felt so furious when Gantier left the room that I found the strength to clench my fists in rage, don’t you dare lose faith in me. But I remembered, I don’t know why, the benefits of being kind, and I blinked sleep away to lay my hands flat on my stomach instead.

“Armand?” I called, softer, the hint of a plea in my voice.

He didn't move, but the muttering ceased, and I let out a sigh of relief. I searched for his eyes in the dim light, trying to keep him focused on me long enough to fight out of the storm.

“Come here.”

It was an order spoken in the tone of a prayer. He stared, I think, and after a long silence, he gently stood up, yes, good, don't ruin it. _Don't ruin it. _

“I need you close to me,” I said, and those sweeter words, I saw them dig their way through his inner tempest to spread light inside his mind. He joined his hands around his heart, and I heard him sob once_, only once_, before he threw himself at the foot of my bed with both his hands around my wrist.

Through my pain, I remember I exulted.

I knew the way. _I owned him. _Everything he was, was mine to command, even his madness, even his nightmares. Even the storm beyond the seawall.

  
_Mine, forevermore. _

“_Very good, Armand_.” I let out, appeased, and he moaned softly.

He brought my hand to his face to kiss it repeatedly, and though he started muttering nonsense again, it looked more out of exhaustion than madness. I let my eyes close with a long, contented groan, grabbing his robes to make sure he couldn’t crawl away from me anymore. I think we both slept right as we were, but it didn't matter. Sickness and the shadow of the Medici hadn't won that time, not yet, not yet.

We were still at war, just him and me on dusty roads.

I knew the way to handle him, and he didn't fear me at all.

Together, we were unstoppable.

It would pass. It had to.

_How wrong I was. _

The next morning, I painfully opened my eyes to see Richelieu whispering to one of the scouts from our troops. I hazily realised that man wasn’t part of my escort, and that he must have come looking for us from the stage camp of Turin.

“What is it?” I wish I grunted, but I fear the words only wheezed out of my dry, sore throat.

Both men turned to me in a heartbeat.

The soldier bowed, saluted, and stated his name and rank.

Armand just bit his lips and folded a small note twice to hide it in his sleeve. By the worried look in his damaged eyes, there was no chance for it to be good news. I think I winced in sheer despair.

Not only because of the trouble about to be announced. Not only because God carried on refusing me _my cherished war_ . But above all, because as I sat up, I felt that feverish pain rushing back into my guts, eating my insides raw, stealing the very air out of my lungs. The same pain as the day before, maybe worse, _welcome back._

The potion didn't work.

_'_ _You’ll either be fine or dying.'_

Dear God, not now.

“How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” Richelieu asked, his nonchalance a work of art.

“Never mind.” I rasped. “What is the news?”

Armand frowned, dubitative, inspecting me for a while. I hissed his knowing stare off me, and he reluctantly complied, dismissing the soldier with a thankful nod. Once the man had left, he took two steps forward, no more, his hands joined on his mouth, his eyes on the floor, Hell_, I knew this was bad. _

“Word has arrived at our troops from Casal, Your Majesty” He quietly said, his words chosen, his stance cautious. “As always, the City is wealthy enough to hold the siege, and Toiras would mock the Spanish troops, of course, even though Spain's best General, Spinola, has now assumed command of the army lines… if dysentery wasn’t striking a vicious blow inside the walls of the Citadel. Marshal Toiras’ regiment has lost a third of its numbers and is still counting the dead. His report, I fear, looks more like a call for help than a statement of facts.”

I closed my eyes, I think, rolling on my side with a whine and turning my back on the news as if that could erase them from existence, gripping the sheet with shaking sweaty fists.

Armand let me heave that way long enough for him to step closer and gently leaned down to me as he added, the implications very clear in his simple, clever words.

“Hence my question, Your Majesty. _How are you feeling?_”

I didn't twitch. I kept my eyes closed, my face in the pillows. The potions hadn't changed a thing, I was in torture, my guts shuddering with sickness.

_'You’ll e_ _ither be fine or dying.'_

Please, not yet.

  
I searched for a decision inside my heart, and through torment and fever, I found it far too easily. History is fabric woven with only one thread. It's doomed to repeat itself sooner or later. It was La Rochelle all over again. I might have tried and persuaded myself I was only answering to Toiras' call, rushing to help my loyal soldier and my friend, but it would all have been lies, pretending my mind wasn't made up the day before.

  
I wanted that war, that was all. I wanted the beautiful City, fate and life owed me far too much. I wanted to go further from Paris yet, and see my Armand's face brighten up again. I wanted him next to me, his brilliant mind and delicate hands _at my service forevermore. _

I wanted that the day before, and the day before that one.

I'd wanted that all along. The bad news or the pain had changed _nothing. _

I released the sheets, bit the insides of my cheeks hard, sat up straight, looked right into his eyes and said, “We're leaving for Turin.”

I'm quite sure Armand had followed my train of thought in every step, and he didn't rush to carry my order straight away this time. He kept looking at me in the morning glow, yellow rays of sun playing with the silver threads of his hair, and though he leaned in when I touched it, I felt it didn't distract his calculations. Though the fit of madness of the day before had left red circles around his eyes, and his hands were obviously bandaged tight beneath his gloves, the seawall was repaired once more, his clever mind working just as fast as ever.

  
In a few silent heartbeats, he made his own decision, weighing his faith in me against his fear of her, listing consequences, scrolling through all odds. I'll never know exactly what proportion of reason and visceral dread had settled in his mind when he nodded quietly, but he did.

He briefly kissed my lips then, his subtle tongue tasting on my skin the flavour of pain and cold sweat.

What I know for sure, is that concern was crushing the breath of him when he went out to have men and horses standing ready.

The maid came back to give me my shirt, crisp clean, warmed up and smelling of lavender. Fat Dog – _well, Sellier, Gontrand Sellier_ – gave us his own horses, two sturdy mountain breeds. The town had gathered outside again, if it had ever left, and I suppose the folk had time to research and inquire, because a few decent _vivats_ were heard on our passage.

Their clothes looked like they came from a century ago, and perhaps they actually did. Their rustic silhouettes and rugged faces spoke of hard work, tough soil, long winters. Though half of them couldn’t tell me apart from my father, I still gave them all the best official salute I could give with my whole body tensing with pain, because those brave, struggling shepherds must have been the truest face of France I had seen in a long, _long_ time.

The road welcomed us back in thick clouds of dust, wildflowers battling granite rocks along the steep descent. As we passed by the last houses of the village, I found Gantier, sitting upon a crude stone fountain on the side of the path, his pouch in the grass at his feet, watching us ride with quiet, mountain lake eyes.

I straightened my back, swallowing my pain, willing my face blank with all I had, and nodded a short greeting for him. He didn't even pretend to be fooled. He looked straight into my eyes and read my agony as in an open book. I flinched. His acute gaze went to Armand then, who rode at my side, worrying what was left of his hands, watching over me with raw torment in his eyes.

Gantier stood up wincing, then, and throwing us a last glance over his shoulder, he just shook his head in regret, _shut up, old man, you know nothing of my reasons, you know nothing of war, nothing of France. _

I wanted to growl, but a quick spasm tore my guts in two, and I tried to make my jolt of pain look like I was spurring my horse.

It would pass. It had to.

_I was wrong. _

I didn't last more than a day.

In the woods near Saint Jean de Maurienne, fifteen miles from Argentine, I was shuddering on my horse, drenched in sweat again, and this war I wanted to fight with all my heart, I lost against a small rock my horse bumped into. The slight jolt of the animal sent me falling on the ground like a heap of wet rags.

I wasn't even holding my reins anymore.

Six men came running to pick me up, and as I ordered them, nonsensical, to haul me back on my mount, I heard Armand's desperate, but firm voice speak above the rustle.

“_No_.”

All looked up to him, including me, as he sat on his own horse, his summer coat stained with road dust, his eyes lost in sheer sorrow.

“Set up the tent.” He told the soldiers. “His Majesty can't go any further.”

The soldiers let out the same sigh of relief at once, and when I tried to shout at him, I only coughed and threw up a thick clot of yellow grime. I tried to stand, idiotic in my resolve, and of course, I wasn't even halfway up when the whole world went cold and dark.

I'm sure the last thing I saw as I collapsed on the grass was my dear Armand join his hands on his face and start to cry.

I woke up on a makeshift litter, built by clever thinking and deft hands from the cart that was containing the camp supplies. They had installed my camp bed, nailed it on the bottom of the cart, and stretched a part of my military tent as a canopy against the mountain sun. I knew what that litter meant, and moaned in sour rage, but someone was stroking my forehead with a fresh damp cloth, and of course, before I blinked once, I knew it was Armand. I tried to speak, but he insisted I drank first.

“You've been unconscious for six hours.” He said, his voice damaged by, I suppose, six hours of crying, “You must be in dire need of water.”

He offered me a full cup of ice-cold water that felt like heaven for a while. I asked for another that came just as fast.

“Lieutenant Corbier found a spring nearby.” Armand let out distractedly. “We stayed away from Saint Jean de Maurienne. It's a bigger town, and I know too little about who's in charge there.”

I nodded without question, too obsessed by the litter itself, and my desperate fight against the inevitable.

“I'll rest for one night.” I croaked, miserable, above the rim of my cup. “Tomorrow morning we'll ride on.”

But the Red Beast, exhaling a ragged sigh, slowly shook his head, and with reverent moves, lifted one of my own hands for me to see. I gasped in shock.

It wasn't pale or white; it was _grey_, my fingertips stained with an ugly shade of blue, black veins apparent below transparent skin.

“The rest of you looks quite the same.” He breathed. “A gut infection. You need to be carried back to Lyon without delay. Up here in the mountains, this kind of ailment has only one outcome.”

I heard, I heard very clearly how saying those words tore his heart in shreds, and I felt, through rage and obstinacy, that he was right once more. _He always is. _

_'You’ll either be fine or dying.'_

I let myself fall back in the bed, my eyes up to the ceiling of blue fabric, an artificial clear sky above my head. One of my hands blindly searched for him, and I felt his own fingers wrapping themselves around mine. I looked at our hands. My fingers cold and blue, his own warm and blood-red.

I let out a low, delirious chuckle. _The colours of our lives. _

“If I go back to Lyon in this state...” I started.

“The Queen Regent will be warned.” He ended.

I didn't need to hear the rest. She’d arrive straight from Paris, throw a tantrum and ask for Armand's head. She had been only waiting for such an occasion to prove Richelieu to be a bad influence, and I had just served it to her on a silver plate. Cursed pride. _Serves me well. _

Beyond the pain I was used to, I felt confused guilt surging up, and its echo in Armand's eyes was more than I could stand. I tried and give his fingers a squeeze. Too weak, I suppose, but he felt it anyway and turned to me with teary eyes.

“As long as I'm alive,” I promised him with a clearer voice, “no one will harm you.”

The hopeless, disbelieving shadow in his eyes as he paused before he answered filled me with darkness once more, but he still managed a short smile, brave as he was, and kissed my dying hand.

“That's why you have to live and be carried back to Lyon,” he whispered, and this time I approved with a low lament.

He took a deep breath to hearten himself, and let go of me to move out of the litter.

“We can make it in five days’ time if we ride fast.” He assured as he managed to jump out elegantly. “I'll ride close in case you’d need anything.”

“_No_.” I fear it was my turn to say.

I heard his steps falter next to the litter, and he slowly, much less elegantly climbed back up.

“Your Majesty?” He asked, fright and heartbreak already rising like the tide in his wide eyes.

I gathered a bit of strength to sit up and make my greyish face look like a figure of authority for the last time. I only lifted my head two feet above the pillow, and it was enough to make my head spin, but I raised an imperative hand and gestured towards the South.

“You stay away from _her_,” I ordered him, absolute. “You take thirty men and ride to the camp in Turin. Keep Schomberg in command, but advise him as you would me. I want both of you to annihilate that Spanish scum around Casal and ride back to Lyon with a merciless treaty signed in Spinola's _blood_.”

With that, I let out a high-pitched moan of raw agony and crumbled backwards. My Red Beast rushed at my side, gripping my sleeve, his brow anxious, his eyes distraught.

“Promise me that, Armand,” I panted, staring up to that fake sky of royal blue, “and I'll go back to Lyon in peace.”

There was a small, fleeting delay in his response again, and I felt, somehow, that he knew much more than I about the next days to come, but he still leaned over me, low enough to be hidden from the world around, and gently laid his warm forehead on mine.

“I promise I will do everything for the sake of France.” He breathed. “_For the sake of you._”

He smelt like herbal tea and mountain winds. He smelt like horses and rhododendrons. His skin was soft, softer than ever, and if my eyes closed, it was because they didn't want to see him leave, I suppose. I felt him shiver, and as he reverently kissed my cheek, I felt his warm tears on my own face again. In his pain, in his misery, I read the truth of how slim the odds of my survival were.

As the whole circle of mountains around us seemed to turn silent, he let go of me, and my whole body mourned him. I was cold, so cold.

_And my_ _ Armand, he always burned. _

“_Mon Roi_.” I think he breathed again, but I'll swear before God on Judgment Day that I heard “_I love you_” so much louder.

History is a fabric woven with only one thread.

It was La Rochelle all over again, leaving him behind to fight my own wars, and crawling back in my mother’s shadow with the stench of death glued on my skin.

_When would Go_ _d give us some rest? _

I wanted that war, I wanted him next to me, and I thought that if I rode to battle forevermore, the warmth we shared would be safe from harm.

But I was wrong.

_I ha_ _d never been so wrong._

I arrived in Lyon half-dead and delirious. I don't remember anything. They laid me here. Local physicians came. None of them seemed to know half of what Gantier did. I slept, I dreamt, I screamed, I cried, and after days of numb pain and hazy fever, I opened my eyes to see the whole Court around my bed. Mother, Anne, Marillac and a heap of nameless bags of dirt freshly shipped from Italy.

The stench of my corrupted Louvre brought South into Lyon.

The Queen Regent had been _warned_ alright.

Dear _mother_.

She made a lot of noise. She chanted and prayed and sobbed and cooed. She was everywhere, all the time, holding my hand, patting my head, whirling around, throwing her fat jiggling arms up to the ceiling.

The disgusting comedy of her filthy ways brought to my deathbed.

Of course she cried, of course she whined, but her true purpose showed soon enough. She didn’t wait for one hour before she asked where Armand was. She never cared, she never will.

“_Out of reach._” I managed to hiss, but she pretended she didn't hear.

“Somewhere deep in Italy, I suppose” she stated for everyone around, so loud it made me whimper, “stubbornly waging the sinful war that almost killed my son again! Haven't you read the signs from God, Louis? Haven't you heard of Anne's suffering, or did this monster blind you from any kind of light?”

In any other place, any other time, I would have stood up and _roared_ at her outrage, but weak as I was then, none of my muffled protests had a chance to be heard, and she knew it. _She knew it all too well._

The most frightening sign of the power she conquered was how free she was to shout out her mind. She had no limit, no restraint any more. She was free to perform, surrounded by her dirty clique approving her every word. Murmurs of consent rose to each and every one of her theatrics, even from Marillac who didn't dare look me in the eyes.

“Well, this is not fair, and I will see justice done if no one else will!” She claimed, spinning around in a disgusting show of velvet and pearls. “I will have _Monsieur de Luçon_ brought back here to face his crimes by any means possible.”

De Richelieu. _His Eminence_ de Richelieu. _Name him right, filthy mare; you're not worthy even to look upon his feet. _

In any other place, any other time, I would have stood up and _roared_, but I was barely strong enough to breathe, and I had no chance of being heard.

I thought that if I rode to battle forevermore, Armand and I would be safe from harm.

_I have never been so wrong. _

_*** _

I let my nails scratch the thick coverlet on my bed, the sound of brocade hissing under my fingers as the only hint that the world is still real. The world begins and ends with the waves of my pain.

I want to call, I have no breath.

_I want to cry, I have no tears. _

She's killing me.

With every day I spent away from the Court, Mother has cut one more slice of power for herself, her law is everything, her will is everywhere, and to have my Armand's head, without the slightest remorse she's slowly _killing me. _

She knows I told him to stay away, win Casal over and ride back here victorious. She knows that given the time, he surely will. She knows that as he returns covered in glory, the banner of Spinola floating high above his head, it won't be so easy for her to blame that war he has designed.

So she’s making sure he doesn’t get that time at all.

_By _ _speeding up my own death._

She didn’t bring my trusted Citoys to Lyon with her. She brought her own physician, a moronic young butcher from Florence unable to tell his left from his right, and this black-clad babbling monkey of hers had done nothing but _murder_ me since the day the Court arrived in Pierre Encise. He has me eat cold uncooked meat, sings in Latin above my bed, applies Mass wine upon my skin, pinches and pulls until I bruise, leaving me sore, breathless and burning.

I can barely speak one sentence every hour. The rest of the time, I spend howling in pain or slumbering in feverish nightmares under mother’s constant watch. _Dear Mother._

With heartfelt _dedication_, she pushes me towards death with every bleeding, every incantation, every filthy potion her charlatan forces upon me, and the slight chance at life I had when Armand sent me back to Lyon, she destroyed in a few days.

Soon I’ll be as good as gone, for sure, and she won’t need to tell him anything else. She’ll just have to write that despite all her efforts, every shred of hope is gone, and Armand will turn his back to Casal just for a last chance to hold my hand. He’ll turn around and come running, I'm sure he will. I have been reading that promise in the embers of anthracite for more than six years now.

_He’ll come running, _ _and she’ll have his head. _

I try to battle her schemes by staying alive, I try to fight the shadows crawling up on me with every passage of her butcher, I swear, I want to give Armand the time he needs, but as I lie here alone in my suffering, I hear the laughter, I hear the music, and without his voice, without his warmth, my resolve is slowly breaking.

If you knew, Armand, as I lie here open mouthed and white, the world around is _celebrating. _

Mother is organising balls in the reception rooms below, a carnival of Italian carriages parading in the courtyard. I’m not even cold yet, and they’re dancing, dancing on my grave, Gaston somewhere in Paris no doubt dribbling upon my throne. My cherished France is already sold to the highest bidder, the kingdom corrupted by intrigues and sin.

  
She has thrown it all in the gutter, my whole life, my whole work.

The visions I had on that map of Europe.

_She has ruine_ _d everything. _

You were right, my dear Armand, you were right to be terrified.

We could have battled for a lifetime and won whole nations to my Crown, she’d have destroyed it all with a few pacts and low bargains. After that, all she had to do was let me die, _and God, am I dying._

Pain is all I have become. My body crushed, my mind broken.

I fight darkness with all I have, but I am being murdered, and at this time tomorrow, I fear, there will be a King no more.

  
_All will hail the mighty Queen. _

_***_

The door has opened somehow, I didn’t hear it. Pain is a shrieking song to my exhausted mind.

Mother barges in, Anne and her suite around her legs, smelling of wine and pastries, and I wish someone could pull my hair away from my eyes, or have the mercy to wash my face, but they all look at my mother instead, and my mother isn't looking at me.

She's marvelling at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. She announces, arms open wide, actress on her stage, that the Monster of Luçon is riding back to Lyon as she speaks.

I close my eyes. Oh, God, no. _Armand, don’t do that, I'm not able to protect you, and you know she wants you dead. She only wants you dead._

She'll slit his throat, she'll shoot him down. She won't even care to bury him. She'll leave him to rot in the mass grave of Pierre Encise, my dear Armand, my shadow in red.

I feel a tear of despair blending into the thick sweat of my cheek, and I hide it by turning my head away from my mother’s high-pitched, triumphant voice.

“Your army is still heading for Casal, thanks to the dedicated work of this devil in red. General Schomberg, stubborn as a horse, heard nothing of my arguments, but at least the beast is crawling back here to implore my forgiveness.”

My eyes snap open. My vision is blurred, and my whole body buzzes with fever, but I still feel my fists clenching in renewed strength. My army is on the move. It means my dear, my clever Armand had time to advise Schomberg. He has designed the assault, every detail of it written upon the maps and books my generals are holding in their hands right now, I'm sure. My fighter, my snake, he has given me the war I hoped for. The battle for Casal is happening, forged in the flames of this man’s adoration.

‘_Mon Roi’ _He breathed.

‘_I love you’ _I heard.

Armand didn't fail me. _Then I have to hold on too. _

My mother speaks some more, I don’t listen. I watch this tight spot of lonely skies, and focus on my breathing, forcing the song of pain away from my mind, one heartbeat at a time. Slowly, shaking like a leaf, weak as a child, I groan and lift my hand up to my face for the first time in weeks.

I brush my hair off my own eyes and face the skies of Pierre Encise as I would stare down the barrel of a gun.

_'I promise I'll do everyth_ _ing for the sake of France. For the sake of you.”_

My Beast, my delight, my fighter, my storm.

  
_I have to hold on too._


	8. July the 8th 1630, Castle of Pierre Encise, Lyon.

This silent, unmoving fight is the cruellest I’ve ever known. 

  
My darkest battlefield.  
  
_My last war for sunrise._

Armand arrived in Lyon one week ago, this I am sure of. I heard valets and maids whisper about it around my bed, but though I called and called for him again, he never came into my dark room. I haven't seen Mother or Anne ever since, of course, _how convenient_, and I'm left, feverish and distressed, with servants' rumours and confused gossip as the only news to hold onto. I heard he had been arrested and locked in a room down below, awaiting judgment from the group of traitors my mother had brought along. I heard he arrived delirious and sick, devoured by madness, and that they were one word away from confining him to his estate for life.

There’s no one here I can trust, her dogs are everywhere, her law is everything. How lonely, how lost I am, weak and helpless in my own Court.

I know it’s all her plan. Keep us apart, to break us both.  
It’s all her plan, and if God wants me to die in here, well at least I’ll die fighting it. 

_Armand didn’t fail me. I have to hold on too._

So I wait, struggling for every heartbeat, one hour at a time, pushing back the song of pain, praying for those rumours to be untrue, praying for him to be sane enough to scuffle his way up those damned stairs. I wait, battling off days one hour at a time, while the butcher from Florence keeps sucking out my blood, pouring poison in my wine and white lead in my food. I’ve grown dreadfully thin, and I can’t feel my legs.   
_Richelieu_, I breathed one day, gripping the wrist of a maid who came to change my sheets, _what has she done with Richelieu?_ But the maid didn’t understand, shrieked in fear and ran away.   
She only spoke Italian. 

I haven’t seen anyone else other than the butcher and two of her guards ever since. I see no word, no hint of him. Everything is a blurry mess of flashes and sounds, God, the skies above Lyon, how far they look by now, but I hear them dancing down below, dancing upon my grave. _Dear God, Armand tell me you’re still alive._

France already soiled, our map of Europe already burned.   
She has ruined everything. _Tell me she hasn't killed you yet. _

My dead father, pointing at the narrow windows of Pierre Encise, where a dozen Royal Guards are scattering away, leaving on the ground a blurry head of flesh and silk. A blurry heap of blood red silk. 

_“Armand!”_ I call, but his blood already pools around the cobblestones, just as Concini's once did, in those same small square patterns. I call, I call, no one answers. Dear God, tell me he's still alive.

Defeated, exhausted, miserable and alone, I still refuse to let go.

I’m fighting for hope. I’m fighting for time.

Time for the battle of Casal, because when France comes out of it in glory and light, she won’t be able to blame the war he designed. Time for Armand’s sake, because as long as he’ll breathe, he’ll try to find a way to reach for me I’m sure. Hour after hour, heartbeat after heartbeat, in this dark room of Pierre Encise, forgotten by most, already buried by some, I fight my own death just to see the dawn of another day. 

My silent battlefield._ My last war for sunrise._

***

  
I've been lying on my bed motionless for days now. I cannot speak- my throat has been burned by the butcher's poison. I cannot move- my blood has been stolen by the butcher's knives. Breathing takes all I have left, and I can’t afford even to twitch.   
Not even when the door slams open for Mother once more, no doubt because someone has told her I looked dead enough for her purposes. Here she comes, storming in to declare my time is near with a hint of sheer triumph in her voice, dear God, woman, I am your son. 

Not an inch of me is moving, but my eyes stay upon her. I watch her perform her sickening play, arms open wide, her tears just as fake as her wig, speaking of me without a glance for my face.

How far away her slender hands adjusting my collar, how long ago her chiding voice sending me to Mass. She used to call me Louis. _Did she really? So often dreamed, so little lived. _  
A pitiful sob comes up to die in my throat. She doesn’t care, she never will.   
  
_What could I have done, tell me please, what could I have done that I didn't deserve a shred of your love? That's all I wanted, mother, that's all I ever hoped for. I tried to be a good son, I tried to be a good King, but everything I have done you just laughed away, and everything I've built, you just destroyed. _

She holds my hand and speaks, but this isn't meant for me at all. This is a well-rehearsed speech, addressed to the circle of dogs behind her back, and I hear the mindless sound of their approval already, oh what have I done, mother, what have I done, tell me, please.  
If you had loved me, maybe, if you had loved me a little, how different would I have been? I would have bathed in righteous kinds of love; I would have glowed in a peaceful light. I would have learned to smile, you know, I would have learned to tell a joke the way Gaston used to.   
If you had made me, perhaps, a little less lonely. 

_Loved, a little bit, by my family. _

  
Anne comes closer next, and as a show of mercy, she doesn’t speak a lot. She watches me with distant eyes, and I guess Mother's plans of having her married to Gaston doesn’t please her as much as our own botched, loveless wedding. She’s a traitor in a dress, her belly a cold wasteland, but she suffered, just as I did, from that horrible night they forced on us both and the thousands of other nights that had to follow.

There has been for her too, a law for every breath, a protocol for every move, and I remember the slender girl of fourteen she once was, presented to me as a gift by people who had planned our whole life ahead of us.

If they had let us learn to know each other, maybe she could have loved me more. If they hadn't forced her in my bed as nothing more than a child, maybe she could have seen me as something more than an enemy. I would have been blessed, then, with a compassionate wife, and I wouldn't have had so much rage, such fury in me. 

_Loved, a little bit, by my family. _

She looks surprised, I think, by the absence of hatred in my eyes, and mutters something I don’t understand before she bows and steps back into the dark with hurried moves. 

Then a loud voice coming from the door announces that the confessor is here.   
Oh, bloody Hell no. I don’t want to speak of my sins. I know I damned my soul six years ago. I damned my soul fifteen years ago. 

I don’t want to confess anything. I keep my sins for God alone, and before he judges them, he'd better explain to me what his plan was, what his aim was, when he made my whole life wretched and cold, only to push into my path the warm and tender hands of the Red Beast. He’d better tell me why he deemed our shared warmth wrong, only to make his lithe body so perfect against mine. Why he laid so much of what I needed into the heart of that one man.

  
I don’t need a priest, I need Armand.  
Only Armand. 

_Please just tell me he's still alive._

Too weak, too heartbroken to voice my refusal, I make myself clear by turning my gaze away once more, but they don't care if I’m willing or not. Mother declares me unfit to pronounce myself, and when they all leave in a racket of cries and prayers, I am left with a closed door and uneasy silence. 

  
I hear loud, conspicuous breathing. Someone has stayed inside.   
I frown and turn my eyes back towards the doorframe.

_ **No. ** _

No, I’m dead already, I’m dead, and I’m dreaming. 

  
_Armand? _

I see red robes, wide eyes, and hollow cheeks, but before my heart leaps in my chest I notice the receding hairline of brownish locks, the thick eyebrows of dark hair, and I remember the cruel irony of fate that made me name Armand's own brother as Cardinal of Lyon. 

Pain, somewhere into the dark, is laughing at me once more.

  
_You’ll die, you’ll die without an heir, and you’ll never see his face again._

Alphonse-Louis de Richelieu, High Chaplain of France, was pushed up the ecclesiastical ladder by his loving elder brother to secure him away from the asylum. The man is living proof of the madness common to all of his kin, his eyes feverish and lost, his words grandiose and unstitched.   
I wait for a fragile minute to see if he carries a message from his brother to me or news of him in any way, but he doesn't even seem to notice my presence, raising hands in the air as if he was God almighty, his dulled eyes fixed on a point between my bed and the window. 

He starts chanting prayers in Latin and neglects everything about my confession to claim his love for all mankind instead, thank Heavens. His speech grows somewhat ominous, his voice rising and dropping in unsteady waves, his sentences unrelated and barely coherent. After a while, he throws himself on the floor muttering Ave Marias, his cheeks drenched with tears, his gaze following hallucinations of his own. 

I watch, horrified, what my own Red Beast has spent his life fighting against, what dear Armand would have become, without his sheer resolve and his mighty seawall inside. His brilliant mind, his meek genius, all of it would have been lost to that devouring madness, if he hadn't been, after all, a remarkable man. 

The glories of my name, all written by the soft slender hands.  
Louis, Le Juste.   
_Please just tell me you’re still alive. _

  
I let out a ravaged cry, I guess, hiding my face in the pillows because I still can't move my own hands. I notice for the first time, then, a young monk who has stepped in with the madman in red, and who’s watching me with quiet, intense eyes. When he sees me frowning at him, he walks towards my bed, very close, and I recognise with a furtive sparkle of hope the dark robes of the Capuchin monks. The boy leans down towards me while the Cardinal keeps on chanting, and whispers in a clear, devoted voice.

“I am Antoine, Your Majesty, one of Father Joseph's novices. The Generalissime is alive, but the Queen Regent has surrounded him with armed guards in the dungeon, allegedly for his own safety.”

Crying out in sheer joy, I have a glance for the Holy Cross the mad Cardinal is brandishing in the air, _oh, thank you, God, for hearing my pleas. _

_Armand is alive._

Sickness and the shadow of the Medici haven't won this time, not yet, _not yet. _

  
I lift a teary stare up to the young monk, gasping a few encouraging words. None of them come out loud enough to be heard, but the Capuchin seems to understand it all anyway.   
Joseph's novice. Of course. 

“Alas, what you heard about his nerves is true,” Antoine adds, lower. “His Eminence is suffering a great deal from being unable to see you, and his mind is... - unstable. He still has managed to entrust me with a message.”

Oh, Heavens, finally. Revived, my fingers twitch, moving to reach the monk's robes. The boy notices and takes my hand. At the first touch of friendly skin since I've reached this wretched place, I take, at last, a deeper breath. The young novice leans closer still, hammering his words, and I swear I almost hear them in Armand's voice. 

“Don't lose hope, Your Majesty.” 

I close my eyes, overwhelmed. Armand hasn't failed me. He never did, he never will. He found a way. Despite thick walls and armed guards between us, we fight together still, for the future we once drew on an old map of Europe. Despite mother's stench, despite sickness and death, here we are, marching on.  
We are at war, unstoppable. 

My fingers grab a corner of the monk's robes. On the floor, at the other side of the bed, Armand's brother is still chanting, staring at the ceiling, passing fervent hands upon the Cross. Above us, the forlorn skies of Lyon, unblinking in their timid light, only hint at summertime. 

I mouth more than I speak, but it will have to suffice.  
_Onwards we march, to war we ride. _

“Find Marshal de Montmorency, the Governor of Languedoc.” I painfully breathe to the young monk. “He’s my oldest friend. Tell him to ride here straight away with a small regiment and protect Armand de Richelieu at all costs.”

Antoine nods, his clever eyes narrowed by determination.   
“I know Montmorency does not like him much” I pant, exhausted, “but remind him of the battles of Saint Jean d'Angély and Montauban. If he still has faith in what we both fought for, tell him to keep this man alive. Go straight to him, trust no one else. You have no idea how corrupt the French Court is.”  
“I do actually, Your Majesty.” The Capuchin mused. “As I said, I am Father Joseph's apprentice.”

I let out a huff of tired relief, and let go of his robes. The monk rushes away, pulling the mad Cardinal out of his senseless chanting and leading him outside with expert gestures.

Silence has ruled over my bed ever since, but I am not letting go. 

I feel his warmth, sent by his lips through thickest walls, armed guards and raging storms. I find strength in that feeling we share, woven in the fabric of history, so much higher than both of us. 

It is God's own plan, it is our fate. 

Our names entwined in the book of future days.

  
Our last battle for sunrise. 


	9. November the 8th 1630, Petit-Luxembourg, Paris.

Sunrise broke in with a thunder of golden light.

I was asleep, at least I think I was because I remember Armand slipping next to me in the bed, wearing his thin nightshirt from La Rochelle. He sang a soldier song to me, the one he played upon the lute.

_Fi de tristesse,_

_Vive liesse,_

_Puisqu'en Amour a tant de bien._

And since my arms were strong and steady as I pulled him against me, I suppose it was a dream.

Sunrise broke, then, with a thunder of agony.

I woke up in hellish pain, but very much alive, screeching like a new born, gripping the sheets tight.

The butcher arrived, his knives in one hand, a bleeding basin in the other, but when he pulled the sheets away, despite his sheer efforts he was forced to recognise in the disgusting blood I had lost the traces of a broken abscess, and the sign of my remission.

His eyes slowly shifted to my face, and he paled as he witnessed my rage coming back to life just as fast as the rest of me.

“I'll be out of this bed in a few hours” a shadow of my voice hissed at him, “and if you're not out of my Kingdom by then, I'll have you quartered in the courtyard.”

The knives and basin fell upon the rug under my bed with a few dull sounds, and his plain black cloak ruffled as he spun around and fled the room. I didn't look good, _not good at all_, and the smell around me was unspeakable, but when Mother came in soon after, alarmed by the charlatan's flight to safety I'm sure, she read the same truth as her henchman did.

Sunrise had come. _France had a King. _

Thwarting and despair only passed on her features in the blink of an eye before she went on with her horrid comedy, her hands on her heart, yelling prayers and devotions to the ceiling above. She cried her sickening delight, falling on her knees like a decadent _pieta_, and my first words for her were to shut her up before her racket brought everyone upstairs.

“Have my sheets changed first” I ordered her, putting an end to her regency without ceremony or warning. “After that, you will let the others in, _including Richelieu_.”

With that, her head shot up, indignation shaking the fat of her chin, but I raised the most imperative hand I could while still laying in my fluids, and sent her away with a growl. She bit her lips in sheer rancour, but she stood, bowed, and left without a word. Three maids came in with fresh linens and the first basin that wasn't meant to collect my blood. In that sight, I felt the warmest light of all daybreaks.

I was sitting up in my bed, putting on a clean shirt with only occasional help from one maid when the Court announced itself. I hid most of the weight I had lost under a brand new coverlet and called for them to come in.

Mother walked in first, her face rebuilt, new theatrics prepared, and maybe I shouldn't have given her time to design her next set of lies, but it didn't matter.

  
Behind Anne's senseless dress, I saw a flash of red. _My red. _

Beyond the concerto of platitudes they served me in different tones and keys, my eyes found the embers of anthracite again, and it was everything I wanted to know.

He was in a dreadful state, it’s true. His robes were tattered, dirty around the edges, and his long hair, _his wartime hair_, couldn’t have been disciplined back into his small red hat. His face looked gaunt, untended, and the bandages around his hands were flat-out disgusting. But he was staring at me with raw, undivided adoration as if the sight of me was the first sip of clear water he had in a long time, and I knew he was coming back to light just like me, his seawall rebuilt with the certainty of my survival.

I let mother’s filthy Court vomit their praise and prayers for a while, not a single word of it worthy of a reply. I only had an amiable look for Anne, I think, because she really seemed relieved, and the thought of her considering _me_ as a slightly less excruciating option than Gaston was an unexpected solace.

But at some point, I sighed loud enough to be understood by all, and muttered some bland gratitude, lying back in my pillows with a very obvious wince. 

They all took their cue and turned to leave, except Armand, of course, who looked nailed on the floor with his burning eyes fixed upon me. I saw Mother nodding at two guards for him to be seized, and I let out my first furious roar since my long waltz with death.

“His Eminence stays here!”

The Court jumped in surprise and hurried faster outside my door. Mother glared at me over her shoulder with a foul glow in her eyes, but I held her stare for as long as it took. She stormed away with her jiggling chin held up.

The gate closed upon them all, leaving me with him at last.

“Lock the door.” I breathed.

He obeyed, blindly, because his eyes refused to leave my face.

“Come here.” I beckoned, and he walked towards me just as he did in that dream of mine.

It almost seemed like he could have started to sing. But he didn’t utter a sound as he naturally fell on his knees next to my bed once more, and we both felt our hearts freed from pain at the same time.

My name had meaning.

The world fell into place.

_France had a King. _

I reached for his hair, and as my fingers passed through the strands of silver thread, I exhaled those two months of agony off my chest once and for all.

“Armand.” I pleaded, giving his hair a gentle tuck.

He understood.

Whimpering in need, he crawled up to me to kiss my lips, his damaged hands gripping the shirt around my shoulders. He tasted of herbs and hunger; he tasted of salt and fever. He tasted like my future days, so intensely, I moaned out loud. I pulled away much too soon, but I wasn’t as strong as I wished. He still remained pressed against me, his gentle fingers brushing everywhere, his worn-out face flinching at the flesh I had lost in the fight and softening at the warmth coming back to my body.

I let him explore all he wanted, relishing in his touch, laying lazy kisses on his cheeks and brow while he grazed or caressed, and in the perfection of that moment I claimed, jubilant, “She hasn’t won this time.”

But my heart missed a beat as he turned his dark gaze to me and said, “_Not yet_.”

Not yet.

I felt my face crumbling.

Beyond the seawall reconstructed, beyond joy, beyond love, there was a wind of terror still howling in his eyes, and a blind, senseless rush of denial washed over my tired mind.

“We’ll be just fine,” I spoke, too fast, too desperate. “I’ll recover in a few days, and we’ll have the horses ready, won’t we? We can still reach Casal, we will - ”

But the fiery embers didn’t follow on my march. They remained steady and cold, watching me in quiet concern, waiting for me to see reason, and soon enough, my frantic speech died in my throat.

I averted my eyes. He was right. _He always is. _

  
Mother was still almighty. Her will was still everywhere.

She had just shown how far she could go, being one monkey away from murdering me with her own hands for sixty days straight. She had only one purpose, she always did, all along, and her plans to achieve it had only been delayed.

  
They had never been cancelled. She’d try again. Her next deceit is already prepared. She’d try again. _She’d keep trying until the end. _

He was right, of course_, of course_. The danger for the State was higher in Paris than in Montferrat by then, and both our duties were to ride back to the Louvre before anything else to clean this treachery from the Kingdom.

Go back to Paris, and face the choice that has never been.

  
_‘Isn't family a sacred thing?_’’

Oh, father, please.

I looked back down at Armand. His deep, clever stare had followed my every thought again, and he dropped a worried kiss upon my shoulder. I huffed in bitterness, passing a careful finger on the bloodstained bandages around his hands.

“Find a valet I can trust and bring him here, _Monsieur de Richelieu_,” I told him softly, “We need a new set of travelling robes made for you. Besides, I want your lodgings to be moved right here immediately. You’re not leaving my side until I’m fit to hop on a horse again.”

***

By the end of September, the whole Court was travelling back North.

I let Mother in the Royal Carriage to giggle and gossip with her bags of filth. I refused to spend one hour in her presence and demanded to ride on my own horse, with Armand next to me.

We were both surrounded by Montmorency and a hundred of his men, who arrived in fracas the day after my resurrection. He positively invaded Pierre Encise, crashing through the gates with fully armed soldiers, and rushed into the castle yelling “where is the King?”

When he found me, sitting in my bedroom eating stew with Armand, he let out the most relieved string of curses I had ever heard.

“That monk told me you were on death’s bloody doorstep!” Montmorency shouted and clasped my arm with beaming delight.

“So I have been, Henri” I laughed heartily, patting his cheek, “but she refused my company.”

“**_Ha!_**” He winked unsubtly. “She might be the only Lady in France who does!”

He had no idea, really, but God, it felt good to see my old friend.

His face grew cold as he turned to Armand though, saluting him with a stern, short bow.

It is true, indeed, that Montmorency too had suffered from Richelieu’s _reorganisation_ of the army and Provinces six years ago. Henri had quite the supreme command position in the French Navy before Armand simply erased his rank from existence to replace it with a clearer system of State Officers that naturally fell under his command as Generalissime of the Armies after La Rochelle. This put an end to centuries of feudal administration in France’s Navy, but despite the insane amount of money Richelieu offered Henri as compensation, the commander never forgave him for cutting his prestige in half.

Montmorency still faithfully asked for my orders, as loyal as he had been in Montauban, and when I told him they hadn’t changed, he nodded immediately, yelling for his men.

The efficiency of his protection hasn’t faltered once, but it didn’t soothe Armand’s haunted, terrified stare.

Though Mother barely showed herself all journey long, hidden in the carriage with Anne and a few of her Italian rats, he kept stealing glances her way, recoiling at the mere sound of her voice, his spying of her entourage becoming irrational. He never strayed away from me, enjoying my sight and touch with bliss and relief, but nothing I could say or do would soothe the feverish dread I felt upon his skin. His meek gestures during the day and his eager kisses at night even had a lingering taste of desperation, as if he was living them as his last.

Despite the strength flooding back into my body with every new day, despite my reassuring words and kind gestures, he still feared the shadow of the Medici.

Anger threatened to take over me more than once, _how could he have so little faith in me? _I knew what I had to do, and when the moment came, I would not falter.

My decision was taken, and _I never step back. _

But as the dusty provincial roads turned into the familiar cobblestones of Ile de France, I felt the ghost of my father looming over my shoulder once more. I chased him away with all the wrong she had done to me, but he came back again and again, whispering about the love I failed to deserve from her, and anguish started to twist my own guts too.

_Will you hurt your Mother, son?_

During a stage halt at my house in Saint Germain en Laye, two messengers joined us with two different kinds of news, and it all turned for the worst.

I only managed to chase away the inquiring eyes of Mother's clique and lock myself up in the castle’s reception room with Armand and both messengers by a _thread_.

The first messenger was a soldier from Casal, bringing a note from Toiras.

Dear Jean was telling me that sickness had decimated so much of his regiment that he asked, and obtained, a discussion with Spinola. Both Generals had visibly earned each other's respect during those months of awful siege, and they came to an agreement on their own.

The Spanish took the City, leaving the Citadel inside to the French, and a truce was proclaimed, medicine and care provided to our troops. There was no mention of Schomberg, and Armand's calculations confirmed the attack wasn't planned before another week.

Our chances for a victorious end to the battle for Casal were still getting thinner by the hour, and we knew, we both knew exactly how Mother could make use of it. Accusing Armand of endangering my life for his own ambition. _Blaming the wars he had designed._

The Red Beast whimpered in sheer distress and joined his hands on his mouth, his eyes blurring. I pushed him down in a chair and let my hand linger on his shoulder, clenching my jaw on my own worry.

_‘Isn’t family a sacred thing?’_

Get out, father.

The second messenger, another Capuchin monk, brought us a letter from Joseph himself. The grey priest had been sent to Ratisbonne by the Cardinal for negotiations with the Hapsburgs. Upon the news of my impending death, Joseph thought it best to secure at least a good half of my recently conquered land by a higher kind of treaty.

Sometimes, I think this informant network of theirs is working _a bit too well. _

There was a copy of the treaty with the letter, and I snarled in rage at first glance. It was exactly the same nonsense the Spanish had proposed in Lyon a few months ago.

Toiras and Spinola's agreement was of military nature, and I could decide to accept it on my own. But because Joseph's treaty was a diplomatic one, signed by Philippe III's own hand, I had to issue an official response, and this one couldn't be given without at least a Council. Since my whole Council had been reduced to Mother and her dogs, it meant letting them all in and hearing them out.

I saw Armand glancing at the door with his thumb between his teeth, and I felt the storm coming. I dismissed the messengers quickly, and before the door was closed, a crushing wave of madness passed into his eyes, and he curled in a ball into his chair, muffling a sob into his hands.

“Armand, calm down.” I tried, my hand still on his shoulder, but it only saved his fingers from open wounds.

He didn't tear his stare from the door.

I sighed and called the Court for Council.

Marillac and Mother voiced their support for the treaty as one, babbling praise for the Very Catholic King of Spain, sharing the faith all of Europe should turn to. The sound of them almost made me sick, and I had to start pacing to stop myself from punching walls.

I told them this was nothing else than Philippe mocking me in bright daylight, but they only signed their chests and brayed more short-sighted bigotry.

The paper I was holding in my hand was crumpled into shreds before I knew it.

Armand had remained upon his chair all along, his eyes fixed somewhere on the rim of my coat, maintaining his seawall with all he could, and mother must have smelled the vulnerability on him because she turned his way for the first time since Pierre Encise.

“And what does His Majesty's Generalissime think of this treaty?” She asked with a poisonous smile on her painted lips, and I don't think I've ever wanted to grab her throat that much. “How unusual for me to hear so little from him.”

Richelieu didn't exactly look at her. His eyes just slid from my coat to her hands and back, I think, and he took a shuddering breath through his teeth. I winced in concern, both willing and unfit to speak in his place, but he's my fighter, my storm, and brave he always has been. He stood quietly with his eyes nailed on my coat, and he started listing the reasons why the treaty had to be refused, in neat logical order, from the past efforts to tame the Habsburgs ambitions to the prestige of our State.

He spoke for a long time, long enough for me to worry about his health. When he sat back down, he looked downright exhausted, and it seemed Mother was expecting nothing else. The _enjoyment _on her face as she leaned towards him, opening her fat wet mouth for a last straw of sarcasm, repulsed me to the bones.

My own voice thundered in the room before she uttered the first sound.

“The Cardinal spoke my thought to the last word.” I barked, making her jolt back towards me. “I heard your reasons as Protocol requires me to, but this Council will refute this treaty, because it is my will, and because I am the voice of both the State and God himself for as long as I still breathe.”

In the enraged, narrowed eyes of my mother, I read how eager she was to change that last detail _drastically_, and I feared I wouldn't have to wait for it too long.

***

“Your Majesty, The Queen Mother humbly requests an audience.”

I freeze in my steps, my hunting pistol still in my hand, my heart sinking in my guts. Montmorency at my side does just the same. I turn away from the main hall towards the stairs, watching one of Mother’s ladies in waiting coming down to me in careful steps.

  
That's it. _It’s now. _

I feel it in the blood me and my mother share.

We arrived in Paris last month, as the most violent rains of October poured restlessly upon the City. I walked into the Louvre for the first time in almost a year, only to discover, furious, that Mother and her clique had spent fortunes on _Barocco_ furniture and drapes, covering the place in nauseating gold rims, while much-needed repairs on the Palace’s roofs were left unattended.

As I stepped into my apartments, rainwater was dripping everywhere inside, ruining a precious part of my maps, and destroying two of my father's portraits. From the screams I heard downstairs, Mother and Anne were already asking for their _Barocco_ _toys_ to be replaced, because mould and fungus were crawling all over the fabric.

_Damned women. _

Rubbing my face into my hands, I ordered the valets to cease all unpacking and move all that could be saved to the Petit-Luxembourg.

This place had been a gift from Armand to mother, two years before his first Council, to prove his gratitude for his incoming Cardinal hat. It isn't a third of the Louvre's length, but it's more recent and of clever build. I heard he drew most of the plans himself.

I won't deny the faint triumph I felt as I ordered this place to be made mine, even for a while.

It granted me somewhere warm and dry to sleep while a good half of the Louvre's roofs were in repairs. I chose mother's own bedroom for my lodgings, just for the pleasure of seeing her fuming, and when I discovered it had a direct connection with the Palais Cardinal, Armand behind me bit his lips in shame. I could have spit a vicious remark or two, I guess, but it would have been rather hypocritical since I couldn't help thinking this secret door would by then serve my own purposes.

Because for the three weeks that followed, I spent a lot of time with him. Whether it was to soothe his anguish or mine, I have no idea, but every hour spent in his study focusing on the future negotiations with Spain was one hour saved from my mother's wide, ominous shadow.

Officially, she was the happiest mother on Earth, so proud, so delighted of her son's blessing of life, and kept ordering Masses to be sung for me every Sunday in Notre Dame. Every time our paths crossed, she sang joyful praise, asked if I felt alright, if I needed anything, and the circle of monkeys around her always applauded in unison.

But her rancorous glares and hissing whispers were mistaken by no one, especially Armand, who locked himself in his apartments most of the time, avoiding all kinds of public appearances, even dinners I invited him to. If it wasn't for health excuses, it was for work, for prayers or for the writing of his _memoirs_, wherever that idiotic idea came from.

He was still terrified.

Again, my words and gestures remained kind, and he always cherished my affection with pliant, devoted care.

Again, I started to kiss and bite his neck more than once on his study table, and he always welcomed my touch with meek sighs of pleasure.

Again, I ended up undressing him a few times, aligning our bodies against a wall of his bedroom and thrusting slowly against him, and he always begged for my skin with sharp cries of want.

But never, not even once, did I see his eyes cleared from their underlying shadow of fear, and that steady, undying _doubt_ in him was driving me mad with hurt, _how dare he think so little of me? _

I wouldn't step back, I never did.

But truth be told, I didn't sleep well, if I slept at all. The ghost of my father was a permanent voice in my head, and my spending time away from her, hunting, working, no matter what, was nothing else but stalling. Armand knew it just as much as I did.

The call of my own blood has been battling the reason of the State so loud in my ears for all this time that right now, as I look at her maid waiting for my answer, I know that war is over, and God, I am almost_ relieved._

“I thought the Queen Mother was ill and didn't want to see anyone” I let out, distractedly tapping my hunting boots on the floor to let the mud fall from their soles.

“Your Majesty is not anyone.” The lady in waiting objects with a more respectful bow, and I bite my lips, looking up the wide marble stairs to my mother's apartments.

I didn't believe a thing in the sudden dizziness she flaunted this morning. No one feels _weak_ after gorging on a breakfast made of five different cakes and half an apple pie. But I supposed she wanted to spend her day alone or with a few of her dogs again, brushing her hair or napping, and it simply felt like another day of freedom for me.

I guess, now, that she only wanted to stop Armand’s spies from getting too near while she was preparing something, and that _something_, well, here it comes.

The time is now. No more stalling, no more denial.

The cannons are aligned, and the powder is ignited.

_To war, I must march. _

“Very well.” I breathe.

I turn around to salute Montmorency, who’s standing there oblivious to it all, brushing dust off his coat. I have asked him to stay in the Petit Luxembourg for a while. He’s been my father’s godson, we have grown up together, and he has followed me upon the hardest of all my battlefields. He's an excellent hunter, and his conversations about the glories of the past have been a most welcomed relief.

The Marshal flashes a smile, his fingers scratching his blonde curls to make dry leaves and road mud fall out of it.

“Shall I wait for you in the dining room, Your Majesty?” he asks. “After all, family first.”

He truly has no idea. _The precious man._

I nod briefly, dismissing the rest of the hunting party and clasping his arm. I hand him my pistol, brush my doublet twice, and as I stare at my mother's door above my head, I almost order him to take fifty men and make a fence around Richelieu once more, but I remember Armand is still buried in his work in the Palais Cardinal, his Red Guards still as well-trained as ever.

He's safe, it's alright. No more stalling, the time is now.

_To war, I must march. _

I follow the maid upstairs.

The self-effacing girl pushes the doors open, guiding me in while making sure to stay safely outside in the corridor. The last thing I hear of her is the sound of the locks of my mother’s rooms clicking behind my back. Twice.

I see.

_War, it definitely is. _

I take a few steps forward, looking for her, once more seized by violent nausea at the smell in her chambers. It's the same thick, rancid air as Anne's bedroom, the memories it brings turning my guts inside out, _for God's sake, woman, open those windows, you're fat as a bear, you fear nothing from the cold. _

She's there, feigning to look outside her _loggia_, patting her cheeks with a silken handkerchief in a carefully prepared decorum of curtains and golden light.

I find around her the pieces of furniture I sent away from her bedroom because they were insufferable to my sight. Absurd pieces of painted wood, so intricate their real purpose can't even be guessed anymore if they ever had one to begin with. A few discarded dresses lay on her bed, each of them worth a battalion, and empty food trays are scattered on the tables.

She has me waiting for a while more, letting me take in the spectacle of her unsubtle tears. I could sigh in exasperation, but it would make me breathe too much of that filthy air. She turns to me at some point, hiding her handkerchief in her sleeve and opening her thick arms wide in one of her favourite theatrics.

“_Mio figlio!_” She coos, “How beautiful you are! Come, let me look at you!”

Oh, how tempting they are, her good old lies, and the ghost of a child inside of me still cries for it to be true. I want, I do want to believe her.

But she's not even looking at me, she's looking at herself in the mirror over my shoulder, correcting her stance as I step closer.

“Do you feel any pain?” She asks, sickeningly devoted. “Do you feel discomfort?”

I shake my head, watching her give herself to her own show with the same confidence, the same freedom she had around my deathbed in Pierre Encise. As she sighs and smiles, I sense in my chest the anguish and trepidation of the first day of a siege war.

She came prepared, the time has come.

Her paws are in place, her words rehearsed, her gesture studied.

_To war, she marches. _

“Such excellent news, dearest son of mine!”

I have been many things, Mother, but never once the _dearest son of yours. _The dearest son of yours is hiding somewhere in Fontainebleau, plotting my death with every breath he takes.

She doesn't care if her words have a single shred of credit. She just thinks she owns the world. Casal is still not a victory and Richelieu is nowhere to be seen. Her dogs are spending their days praising her every word, and she's so swelled with vanity she might _burst_.

She spent two months murdering me, and she's still not in prison. I answer her call, I sleep in her own bed. That's enough for her to be persuaded I'm still a stuttering puppy whining for a brush of her hand.

_For God’s sake, have you even looked at me once in those last ten years, Mother? _

  
“Why have you called me?” I spit, suffocating in the putrid smell her perfumes can barely hide.

_God, her teeth are awful_. How far the forest is by now, how far the hunt. How far are Armand's silver hair and the scent of herbs that always lingers there.

Mother's face closes up in an overplayed mask of dignity, purposefully failing to hide hurt and rancour. She grabs a fan on a commode nearby and starts to shake it violently, making her pearls rattle and her cheeks quake.

  
“Listen, my son” She starts, and I know that voice.

  
It's the one she's had every day from the day my father died to the day I killed her Concini. It's the sound of her chuckling when she tastes a new meringue she likes a lot. It's the voice she once had when she discovered power and decided she was never going to let go of it.

  
The song of the only true feeling she ever had for me.

An amused, careless disdain.

_'Why don't you hop out and kill some birds?'_ She used to say, and rage burned so high in my throat, my words came out ruined and scattered.

  
No matter how large, how wide her body has become, there will never be a place for me inside her chest.

  
She never cared, she never will.

My crown attracts her more than any love I could provide.

  
“We must discuss this Minister of yours once and for all.” She goes on, and my breath hitches.

The time is now. The cannons are aligned.

_The powder is ignited._

  
“You know how patient I can be,” She says, and the fact that she genuinely seems to believe her own words amazes me. “I have always been the long-suffering kind, and I've been willing to tolerate his sinful and devious ways for a while, but really, during these last three years he has gone much too far.”

I avert my eyes and glance at the fireplace to hide my grimace of outrage, oh, you _tolerated_ his sinful ways quite, fine mother.

For fifteen years as you crushed him under your weight on the rug of your bedroom.

You had him sit on your own bed, they said, _until you had him lie down there._

You had him speak into your ear, they said, _until you had him beg and moan._

I grip the backrest of a pompous golden armchair because if I have to break something, let it be something useless.

  
“For three years now he's been dragging you all across the continent to provoke our friends and comrades of the true faith into meaningless wars” she adds, adamant, “his negligence for your health has been so criminal it cannot be a coincidence! Can't you see how his ambition has been killing you?”

_Well, I have felt how **yours** almost did._

She doesn't even realise how perfectly her speech could apply to herself. She's confident and free, she thinks she owns the world, and she has only one purpose. She'll want my crown until her dying day, and right now, first things first, _she wants my Armand's head._

“He has no respect, no regard for the Dukes and Lords who helped build this country while your father lived. He violated their privileges, dismissed their sons, destroyed their strongholds and stolen all their wealth for himself!”

Yes, it's called the State, and it's my will just as much as his. If that Spanish mare grants me a son before I die, this will be the start of a bloodline of absolute kings, ruling in strict order over a well-oiled machine of servants, securing the whole population from the Vosges to the Pyrenees, from the Royal family to the lowest of peasants.

  
It's my vision, it's my dream, it's France looking the Habsburgs in the eyes at last, and it's far, _so far greater than you._

  
Is that what you think? Are you just like those ignorant fools writing pamphlets of me being a wooden puppet, letting Richelieu rule in my place, _Mother have you even looked at me once in ten years? _

  
That stuttering child you laughed at, the scrawny ball of sadness you locked in a room to be forgotten is dead by now. One day his own rage swallowed him whole, _and anger has turned him into me._

She speaks on and on, blaming him for taxes weighing on a people she never cared for, invoking a God she spent her life spitting in the face of and soon or later I'll have to say the words.

This nightmare, it'll have to stop.

She starts listing her infinite reserve of gossip about Richelieu's alleged crimes and I lower my eyes to a detail of an atrociously adorned armchair I am gripping. This frivolous thing is worth at least twenty good horses, _God have mercy, those words, I need to let them out. _But how to tell her she's no good, how to tell her she’s foul, how to tell her she's wrong.

How to tell her I want her gone when I don't want her _dead?_

How to phrase the awful crime I'm about to commit, _Heavens, I am her son. _

Over my shoulder, the stricken face of my dead father is looming.

_‘Will you hurt your own mother?”_

I cannot step back, I never have. I wielded blades, I fired cannons.

_But words, cursed words, they could never come out._

She speaks, she cannot stop, in fake arguments or grotesque emotions, and I'm about to just scream at her until she shuts her filthy mouth, but behind her back a curtain has just moved and my hand has rushed upon my sword.

The gold-rimmed fabric on the wall gently slides aside, and I feel my heart clenching as it reveals a shade of red.

_That_ shade of red.

Mother pales and turns around to follow my stare.

As the silhouette in silk closes the curtain and steps forward, she lets out a high-pitched, panicked sound.

_'Armand,'_ I almost say out loud, I thought him in the Palais Cardinal, how the hell can he be here?

  
_'Armand,'_ I almost call aloud, but for once, maybe, he's not looking at me.

  
  


Standing tall, his eyes in ruins but his chin held high, after five months of avoiding her mere shadow, he is looking straight at her.

He must have learned what is happening in here. His spying on her, it's true, has turned insane, and now that I think about it, that maid I followed here, wasn't she the one he gave that trinket from La Rochelle to? He must have known she was making her move and rushed in here by a passage even she has forgotten. Behind this curtain, I'm sure lies a corridor the Red Beast had built for my mother's own schemes when he drew the plan for the Petit Luxembourg

By the astounded, furious look in my mother's eyes, I guess she'll regret this one forgotten door for the rest of her days.

She's positively sweating in rage, her cheeks reddened and jiggling. Her whole frame is beaming a senseless, bottomless will to destroy, and as I witness the silent, yet mighty clash between the Queen of intrigues and the creature that outsmarted her, I can only hold my breath and stare.

  
“Would it be me being talked about?” He asks, his voice controlled at the price of his very breath, his gloved hands clasped together tight against his stomach.

  
_God, how brave he has always been._

He's facing his worst nightmare, the features of a name that could make him lose his balance even eight hundred miles south of Paris. He’s on his own against the wrath of Juno, his cheek white, his breath ragged, and how could I forbid this man to carry a sword, he's the fiercest fighter I've ever met.

He's stepping forward once more, his damaged gaze still ardent, and by that graceful gait, by his lowered eyelids, by his head gently tilted on the side, he’s literally beckoning violence upon himself.

_God, that’s exactly what he’s doing, isn’t it?_

He's not just facing her. He's _provoking_ her.

He's daring her to explode, challenging her out of control, out of her list of forged allegations into a burst of boiling rage, because in there, I feel it, _is something he wants me to see._ He shifts closer, fragile, maddening, and it works, of course, it works, she's dull, short-sighted, hysterical.

Her wits aren't worth a scrap of his mind.

“Well, _yes, we were_! "She shrieks, striding to him in a rustle of jewellery. "We were talking about the foulest, filthiest of all ungrateful creatures! "

She's terrifying, the Mother of all Nightmares, swollen by power and self-assured fury, stomping towards him in a racket, inescapable as a landslide, but he doesn't step back. Not even a flinch. He's looking right at her, blank and restrained, making himself more vulnerable with every hitch of his breath, manipulating her with his own sacrifice, and of course, it works, she's dumb, she's vile, and she's always so bloody _wrong_.

“You're a monster, Luçon" she spits at his face, "You're a handful of snakes shoved in a cassock! You're a bag of filth, a vicious buzzing insect, nothing more than a cockroach in my kitchen, nothing more than mud on my shoes! "

She's screaming now. She's just _screaming_.

  
He doesn't move, and through his façade of meek silence, she doesn’t notice the rising whirlwind of terror in his eyes. I do.

My hands twitch in the instinct to grab him by the arm and shove him out of her reach, but I know, I know. _There’s something he wants me to see first._

  
“You're a liar, a traitor, driven by nothing but your filthy greed! You, Luçon, never had a shred of truth in your rotted, poisonous soul, and you could never shake a hand without using it for your purposes! You'll burn in Hell a thousand times before your frozen heart starts to melt!

She looms around him, vomiting bile on his robes, half of her sentences slipping back in that vulgar florentian dialect she never unlearned. Lost in her rage, she shows her true self, dribbling in undignified splutters, greed and obsession drowning her darkened stare.

_Dear God, this is what he wanted me to see. _

Her fury is not about power, influence or even intrigue. It has never been. It’s something basic, something deep, something animalistic and wild. She might see her advantage in destroying that man, but the core of her hatred for him, I see it now, is nothing more than the howling of her skin.

He had been hers, and he has left, that's all her mighty rancour feeds upon. She's ready to ruin the future of France just to make him pay for her betrayed lust, and this is all so senseless I feel almost dizzy. 

_This rancid, shrieking monster needs to be locked up until she dies._

“Do you think you can rule this country?” She keeps on howling, demented, obscene. “You? How presumptuous! You're a nameless bag of dirt pulled out of a mud-hole provincial town from a family of beggars, whores, and lunatics!

I jolt in pain as if I had been insulted myself, and I look up at him, _come on Armand, your trick has worked, I’ve seen enough, now for God’s sake, make this stop, defend yourself._

But even though it’s all useless now, his shoulders keep a subtle, obedient line, and his hands remain joined upon his heart in a delicate, docile pose, _why are you doing this, speak up, destroy her, you’ll need five words, no more, you – _

Oh, God.

Those signs of submission, they’re not meant for her anymore.

They’re meant for _me_.

He's shaken by repressed sobs, breathing in short wheezes, his hands gripping each other so hard they could break, but no matter how harsh her words may be, he won’t even open his mouth.

_I always forbid him to. _

My chest feels caught in ice.

I never let him speak against her, thinking I still had time, running away from the inevitable, choosing the lesser of two evils, and look at what I've done. He could unmake her with one sentence, her wits aren't worth a shred of his mind, but he'll obey me to his last breath.

This trick, this reckless move of his, it was never meant to be ended by his voice. As he suffers through his martyr of humiliation, it’s me, only me he’s waiting for. _My choice. My decision. _

This reckless provocation of his was more than a trick. It was his highest, his ultimate leap of faith.

_'How can you have so little trust in me,'_ I thought. Well, look at him now.

He has just laid his whole life into my hands. _Those words, those words, they need to come out. _

“You're a low breed thinking himself worthy of a crown” she barks, “well let me tell you, feccia, that you're not worth even that which I leave in my commode!”

“**Enough!**”

My voice resounds loud enough in the tepid room, but as they turn to me as one, my chest only clenches. Silence stretches between us, merciless, unbearable. I almost whine in pain.

It is for me to speak by now, I know, but words_, cursed words, they never could come out. _

The corpse of my father is like a cloak around my shoulders, pushing me down with all its weight, and I hear my breath shortening, my eyes blurred by confused rage, my whole body trembling with all those things I never could speak about.

_I would have learned how to talk you know, father, I would have learned to tell a joke the way Gaston used to do. Words would have been more than this lump in my throat, if you had made me, perhaps, a little less lonely. _

It's time for me to speak, I know, but all I can do, all I could ever do is growl in rage and clench my fists.

  
Yet, I must protect Armand. His seawall is breaking, I see it in his eyes. With every second I remain silent he’s crumbling down faster, and whatever's about to happen, I can’t let it happen in front of her. She'd be too damn happy, delighted to see her filthy insults proven right before her eyes and she doesn't even deserve to _dream_ of it.

“Cardinal” I call, as softly as I can, “Would you please leave us?”

He gasps, heartbreak creeping up his eyes as the ocean tide sometimes does, unstoppable, destructive, and I feel my stomach turn to lead, **_no_**_, Armand, I'm not dismissing you, I just want you safe from - _

I want to explain, I want to make him understand, but I'm dizzy and nauseated, thick air clenching around my lungs, _father, please, just let me breathe. _

_“Your Eminence.” _I caress, and I don’t think I’ve ever addressed him like that, but it's too late.

  
Madness is already engulfing his stare, blurring it with visions only he sees, and he steps back, shuddering, towards the curtain against the wall. I try to move towards him, but he only jolts further back in terror, his demented stare darting towards Mother and back to me.

Before I can reach him, he turns away and leaves, letting out a low cry of sheer sorrow, and behind my back, I hear my Mother snickering in triumph.

_I have ruined everything, _

I am a pointless, inept fool.

I press both my hands flat upon the curtain that swallowed him, squeezing my eyes shut to seal my tears away from her. She laughs some more, I swear, _she laughs_, before she walks around her game table to lay a hand upon my shoulder.

“_Mio figlio_...”

I jump out of her reach with a roar and step away, so furious I can't breathe, so lonely I can't cry.

“_You_,” I growl, pointing at the gate of her apartments. “Have this door unlocked.”

“Of course, my dear!” She chimes, trotting to the door and knocking three times. A few seconds later the lock clicks twice, and the light of the human world pervades the nine circles of Hell.

I stride outside, not bothering for a sound since my words only seem to be bound to fail. I just glare at I pass her by, swearing to God and to myself I will see that gleeful smile of hers turn to sobs of defeat before I see any of her _careless disdain_ ever again.


	10. November the 9th 1630, The King's bedroom, Versailles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning : smut (anal fingering, anal sex) (finally)

I ride to Versailles on a horse barely prepared with two guards panting to follow me. I ride through cold, thick rain, gritting my teeth, staring straight ahead, trying to run away from the dust of the Louvre, from the stench of my mother, from the burn of my failure.

  
But though the cobblestones of Paris soon turn into muddy roads and winding paths, most of my torment I bring along with me, locked inside my guts in a whirlwind of conflicting voices.

My father speaks, blood dripping out of his blackened mouth.

My mother laughs, triumphant and free, her dogs behind her praising her mere shadow.

Armand cries, lying broken in a courtyard, his soft skin pierced with a thousand blades.

My own voice stutters, unable to find the words to make up for my own mistakes.

_Dear God have mercy, why can't I speak, why can't I cry? _

We pass the gates of my hunting lodge a few hours before vespers, the sun having long set behind the old windmill. I dismount in a jump and run up the stairs, still strangled by my own turmoil.

I'm not sure of what I want to do, exactly- hide away, break something, whatever would appease the racket in my mind, but as I step into the hall, I stop dead and my head clears.

  
The curtains I have sent for have been hung on the walls just as I asked.

'Are you sure you didn't want Royal Blue, Your Majesty?' The master weaver had asked as I shuffled through his samples, but I confirmed my request twice, demanding a specific shade of red instead.

_That_ shade of red. My Red. 

I look back at the road to Paris, _God, Armand._

I still hear his cry as he turned away, he must be in such a state by now, and it's all my fault, my storm, my fighter, _what have I done to you? _

I ruined everything.

I ruined everything, and if I can't find the words to make up for my failure, well, there's only one thing left to be done.

I turn to the two guards who followed me here. They're both standing at the gates, their hands upon their swords, watching me with concern on their honest, noble faces. One of them, Hamois, has two brothers in Richelieu's Red Guards. He doesn't seem too tired, only his horse must be.

“Lieutenant,” I call to him.

He clicks his heels and bows. He's a handsome boy of nineteen, at most, his family among the most faithful friends I have in Finisterre.

“Your Majesty?”

I nod towards the stables and command, “Take a new horse, go back to Paris and _bring him to me._”

It might be the first time I truly speak to that soldier but, somehow, I don't need to tell him who I'm referring to. He knows. Who else, in those last six years, have I ever required after all?

The boy salutes and dashes off. I turn back to the stairs up to the first floor, stride to my bedroom and collapse on a chair. I rub my face into my hands, exhaling a distressed sigh, looking through the windows to distract me from those shudders in my guts.

Outside, my cherished forest awaits, swarming with deer and wild boars, radiant with the might of all wildlife, untamed, unbending, a stranger to the absurd laws of men. November winds are bringing a bath of thin, cold rain to the sleeping trees. Frost and snow will soon follow, covering the old windmill in perfect white. It will be time for retreats then, alone but for a few friends, chasing the last foxes and talking weaponry around a simple meal.

With a sigh, I turn my gaze to the walls around me.

Inside, the furniture is simple and useful, as I required, soothing my eyes with straightforward lines and smooth surfaces. No frivolous lies, no golden rims, no painted wood, no Barocco, no silk brocade. Never a woman has set her foot in here. There isn't one bedroom that could welcome any. The stench of Mother or Anne has never reached the gates. The air is fresh and light in here, filled with the scents of wilderness, old wood, gunpowder, and all over the place rules a deep, undisturbed silence, _thank God, at last. _

Versailles is the furthest from a Palace as a King’s house can ever be.

Those walls, those trees, from the plain ceiling to the floorboards, everything here is mine.

  
_Everything here is me. _

The lodge is deserted in winter, only a few local valets maintaining enough heat in the house to keep the dampness away. A dim fire has been lit in the hearth behind me, and though the room is quite chilly, I find it still most welcoming.

I get up, open a cupboard and find a few bottles of Bordeaux I keep in there. There's no glass to be seen, but it doesn't matter. I bite the cork off and spit it on the floor, sitting back in the armchair, taking a deep gulp.

_'Will you hurt your mother, son?' _A deep voice thunders inside my head.

I raise my bottle to the ceiling. _Welcome back, father._

I can't see his ghost there, no doubt because I can't picture him inside these walls he has never known, but the only portrait I accepted in this room is his, and his voice in my mind, I fear, will last as long as my guilt.

My father lifting me above his shoulders is the oldest memory I can summon. He used to pick me up and have me fly around, meeting my cries of joy with his low, rumbling laughter.

_“Oi, mon fils!” _he sang, and I truly felt like a prince there.

I wanted those moments to last.

I wanted us to hunt together for years. I wanted him to teach me how to break artillery lines. I wanted him to pat my head and say he was proud of me once more, but a long time ago his own lustful ways and a demented bigot decided otherwise.

Father left me with a mother who enjoyed power like the sweetest of meringues and decided she would do everything to keep me away from it. He left me with six years of her careless disdain, locked away in ignorance until sheer rage pushed me to kill her Italian toy. He left me with fifteen years of lonely nights until, out of my mother's foulest wake, a shadow in red appeared, bearing the face of my future days.

_Armand._

Through filth and sin, this mad priest had fought his way up to me, coming to offer everything he had at a time when I was finally ready to take it, and as we inescapably collided together, the more I asked, the more he gave.

  
His brilliant mind, his delicate hands.

His handwriting upon a map of our Europe. His cries of bliss upon a wall of my bedroom.

He gave me Cities, he gave me promised lands. My banner flying high from the Vosges to the Pyrenees. _Has anyone received a more ardent declaration? _

In his gentle obedience, I found my name had meaning. In his lithe frame kneeling before me, I found my world fallen into place.

He spread warmth where there were only frozen words and barren touches. He gave me every kind, _every kind of affection. _Including the one you only find in the light of God, or the arms of a mother.

My fighter, my storm, my Beast, my love.

_My one, my only love. _

What have I ever done but to hurt him?

I made him cry, I made him bleed, I made him fear for his own life, while all he asks is to feel safe. I am no King, no King at all, if I can't give him at least that. And if my words seem to fail me, well, _father_, isn't there only one thing left to be done?

I take another gulp of wine, and rush to the corridor to call for a valet.

An old man comes, a dog trainer from Reuil who volunteered to live in here in the wintertime, taking care of my horses and pistols while I'm away. His mother was quite erudite for a seamstress, I heard, and named him Achilles, although I don't know why.

“Your Majesty?” He stammers, astounded. “No one announced your arrival!”

“No one could have” I shrug. “Don't fuss, don't change anything. Just stroke the fire in my bedroom, let the Cardinal in when he arrives, and keep everyone out after that.”

The old man nods, bows as low as his stiff back allows him to, and spins around whistling for his stable boys.

“I mean _everyone_,” I shout, making him turn back to me with a knowing look.

That kind of man sure knows how to carry out such an order. He must enjoy being alone just as much as I do, or else he wouldn't have chosen this line of work. I have a soft smile for him as he rushes downstairs with the determination of an Artesian hound. Does the mighty Achilles have any idea of the page of History I'm about to write today? Well, certainly very little, but that's still more than Marie de Medici ever had.

I step back into the room to find my ink and paper.

***

Two knocks on my door, gentle, delicate.

I'd recognise them among a thousand.

_He's there. _

I snap out of my thoughts, grazing the paper I've been staring at for hours now. The ink dried long ago, my signature clear and unhurried. Each line of this letter has been a struggle, but unlike speech, writing gives you the luxury of time, and the silence of Versailles always helps me concentrate.

I look up through the windows. Moonlight has fallen upon my dear forest, and the night birds’ forlorn howls can be heard in the silhouettes of naked trees. The November wind is still brushing against the walls of my lodge in melancholic tunes, and frost will soon follow.

What was I thinking about, why do I have this old soldiers song inside my head? It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore.

On this one sheet of paper, _the words are finally out. _

  
Behold, father, the one thing left to be done.

I get up, unhurried, and take the time to light a few candles around the room. Not too many, the night is clear enough outside, but fire can turn moonlight into soft, warmer hues. When it's all done I pick up the letter, walk towards the door, stop a few yards from it, and clear my throat before I call.

“Come in.”

The door clicks, slides open. The red waves of rustling silk flow into the room, and I almost smile, _he's there, he's still there, answering my call as always. _But his face comes into the light, and my grin crumbles into sheer guilt, _oh, God, what have I done? _

He's barely standing up. He barely looks alive.

He's pale as a corpse, holding his winter coat tight around his shoulders, shivering violently. His gloves are stained with deeper shades of red, and beneath them, I only guess the rampage his sickness has caused. His cheeks are reddened from hours of crying, but he doesn't seem to have any tears left to shed by now. The seawall is in shreds, he's biting his lips enough to bleed, I'm sure, and his glassy eyes remain somewhere on the wooden surface between our feet. 

He doesn't look at me once, he doesn't even bow or address me.

He just takes one, two steps forward, and without a word, without a twitch, he sinks to his knees and lays his hands upon his lap. Gently, gracefully then, he tilts his head aside and moves no more.

_'Make it quick_,' his eyes seem to say, and the emptiness in them makes me whine in a rush of panic.

He wants me to kill him.

He thinks I have brought him here to dismiss him, and he truly, sincerely wants me to slit his throat instead- as if I would, _as if I could - _

I stare, dizzy, at the gaping, miserable void this man becomes when I let go of him. His heart, his breath, his sanity, his life, everything he is, he gave to God, he gave to France.

  
And to the man who in his eyes impersonates the two of them.

_To me. _

I have to catch my breath for a while, unable to tear my eyes away from the dull, absent look on his features. He's closer to death right now than I had been in Pierre Encise as they called out for the confessor. He's hollow and desolate like a plant withered long ago, and I fear a single touch could turn him into dust.

“_Armand_,” I call, but he doesn't react.

The seawall is no more. He's washed out by his own storm, and I don't think he even cares.

So with careful moves, I lean towards him and lay the letter on the floor, where his eyes must be looking and inch away a little to seem less threatening. It will suffice. He's been my minister for six years, he knows what a letter of exile looks like.

But at the mere sight of my signature he closes his eyes tight, lets out a heart-wrenching whimper and recoils from the paper as if it could burn him alive, _oh God, he thinks it's for him, as if I would, as if I could- _

What have I done but to hurt him?

I made him cry, I made him bleed, I made him fear for his own life.

What have I been but his torture? An empty shell filled with fury.

“Armand, _please_, just read the letter,” I beg.

He doesn't move at first, petrified in his pain.

But after a while, he utters a pleading sob, and my dear Red Beast, docile right until the end, slowly opens his eyes. His fingers clench around each other in a shudder, and he forces himself to look at the letter again, panting in laboured, wheezing breaths.

I watch, hopeful, his eyes follow the first lines of my writing, time suspended to the knitting of his brow, but eventually, _thank God_, he blinks, gasps, and starts reading again.

He reads my concession to my mother of the governance of Blois, its lands and its castle, to which she is hereby confined for residence in a permanent, and definite, manner. He reads my forbidding her to ever come to Paris again, or be involved, directly or indirectly, in any state business whatsoever, and my suppression of any political right or privilege she could claim for the rest of her life. He reads my promise for due regards as a good son, but my firm will to never go back on my decision.

He watches my signature again, with wider eyes this time, and looks at it for a long, long time.

Then, gingerly, he turns his head up to me.

His shaking hands crawl upon his heart as if to soothe its hammering.

His wide eyes stare at me, and I witness the winds of good omens blowing upon the dying embers of anthracite, reviving their flame with each passing second. It seemed he had no tear to shed, but there's one gently rolling on his cheek as he sways to the side and falls sitting on the floor, his robes pooling around his legs in arabesques of silken blood.

He looks like he could faint, but his gaze doesn't falter, and as his worn-out mind rewrites yesterday under a brand new light, seeing the truth in my failed words, I sense warmth blooming fast upon his face. He tries to speak, but he only coughs, weakly, one of his damaged hand flying to the floor for support, _God, what have I done but hurt him?_

My one, my only love.

Before I know it I'm cupping his face with my two hands and when his eyes widen in shock, I realise I have just knelt at his side for the first time. I look down at my legs against his upon the floor. It doesn't feel strange.

It's only natural. I owe him nothing less. _I owe him everything. _

I search for his eyes, dive into the dark pools of fiery embers, and now the words I needed to let out are sealed on paper, my voice finally speaks what I should have said so long ago.

“I will keep you, Armand. Whatever the cost, whoever your foes. I will keep you and protect you, I swear it to God and to the forces of Nature herself. You'll be mine, in body and soul, for as long as we live, and through the dreams we'll both make true, for many centuries beyond.”

I could say more, I really could, but I'd rather stop right there, because he's shaking so hard I'm afraid he could break, and I don't think he can stand another word. He's breathing in whimpers, and if I wasn't holding his smooth cheeks, I'm sure he'd collapse on my lap, but God, that_ light _in his eyes.

He's still torn open, raw and shivering, but I feel the storm in his mind turn into a howl of sheer joy, and the sight of such a mighty force changing from darkness to bright daylight is a wonder I won't forget.

Who has he always been, after all, but_ a remarkable man? _

My thumbs draw soft lines upon his cheekbones as I let out what remains to be said, my speech toned down, my stance unsure.

“Will you ever forgive me, dearest, for the unnecessary suffering my faults have brought onto you?”

With that, he lets out a broken sob, and thick warm tears I didn't think he could spare trickle from his eyes, drenching my own hands. He doesn't reply. He'll never need to. With a cry of deliverance, he grabs the back of my neck, pulls me down firmly and crushes our mouths together, licking me open, ravishing me deep.

Fire too long imprisoned explodes on my skin, free to roam and burn, unrestrained by fear. I cry out against his mouth, falling upon him as he sinks backwards on the floor.

As his back hits the parquet, he urges me against him, his mouth leaving mine to draw a maddening path down my neck. He bites there, once, hard enough to make me moan, and upon a humbler kiss, he relinquishes control and drops his gaze invitingly.

“_Mon Roi._” He breathes, and the violent _need_ in his voice crowns me a glorious King more than any ceremony could.

I roar and throw myself upon him, kissing every tear that hasn't dried, making him feel the weight of me, covering him, shielding him until his cries sound as fearless as mine. My fingers lose themselves in his hair again, making candlelight sing in silver thread, and this wretched life of mine is redeemed from misery. I call out his name, and he moans loud, parting his legs a little, enticing and sly, the corrupt beast, _the sinful snake._

The storm of sickness is still howling in his mind, and it only makes his moves wilder, how little do I care.

I'll take him as he is, unstable as the sea, wild like a tempest.

Everything he is, is mine to command, _mine, forevermore. _

I press my hips against his, already breathless and feverish, tearing his robes open like a famished wolf. I'm ruining precious fabric, I'm insulting the rarest silk, but if I don't feel his skin right now, I'm afraid I might suffocate. In the haze of my want I snatch both his gloves off, and I gasp at the horrid wounds I find underneath, oozing blood and untended, his frail skin sacrificed on the altar of my mistakes. He senses my shock, follows my gaze, and whimpers in shame. He moves to put the gloves back, and I grip his wrists, stopping him dead.

He mutters something about his fingers being too marred to touch me, but to make myself clear I pull his hands towards my lips to kiss them both, calmly, patiently, until every wound is licked clean, and by the time I'm halfway done he's heaving in raspy moans, almost begging for more.

As he lays on the floor there, reaching out to me with his bloodied palms open wide, he looks, I swear, like those saints upon the walls of Sainte Chapelle, circled in gold leaf, bearing on their hands the stigmata of someone else's sins.

Divine creature, _the Lamb of God._

I let out a gulping sound, and without a thought, I unbuckle my own riding cloak to throw on the floor next to him.

Sliding one arm under his waist, I lift him up and gently lie him down on the rich brocade, and I think he understands by now what I mean to tell him. He lowers his eyelids, reassured, meekly opening the rest of his blood red robes for me before I destroy them all, and sprawling them next to the thick velvet of royal blue, both fabrics paying tribute to his white skin.

I freeze, my breath lost to me once more, and I stare, mesmerised, at my only love, slithering upon the mattress of our cloaks. I see blue, white and red shining fiercely under the radiant moon, and I vaguely realise those might be the colours of future France.

Alarmed, maybe, by a hint of reverence in my eyes, he makes sure to remind me of the Beast he still is, shifting an agile leg against my groin, making me groan in lust once more. I snarl and fall back down on him, devouring his soft skin from his hipbone to his shoulder until he cries out in sheer bliss.

I lick around his ear and rumble there an order to undress me.

He complies, devoted, careful in his gestures despite my lips upon his throat, letting out low moans of pleasure for every inch of skin I allow him to touch.

Soon my leathers and linens fall on the floor, respectfully pushed out of reach, and I could envy how, unlike mine, his swiftness can't be clouded by need, while all I can do is press myself against him, yelling in rapture as our heated skins finally meet. He welcomes me, his hips arching up, aligning us on sheer instinct and providing the friction I craved. Before long, I feel myself hard and twitching, sliding against him in slow rhythms.

“Armand” I moan, and he lets out a delicate whine against my shoulder.

We move for a while in that dance we know so well, and it already lifts me up to a blurry haze of pleasure, but we both know, I'm sure, this is nowhere near enough. Not now, _not anymore._

He shifts his legs around my waist, wrapping himself around me, delightful snake, my dearest Beast, and as his moves guide my cock between his buttocks, I cry out, undignified, crazed with lust.

God, I want him.

  
_I want everything. _No more stalling, no more denial. I have damned my soul so many times. _I have been damned for fifteen years. _

I thrust, slowly, making my shaft slide upon his firm backside, and I feel him jolting in bliss, whimpering loud, his need to be_ ravished_ so clear my heart misses a beat. I do it again, deeper, and my whole skin shrieks with desire. I grab his hair, pull him towards me, search his eyes and command him.

“Show me how it's done.”

His eyes widen in apprehension, and he opens his mouth for a few hesitating sounds, but I thrust down a third time and with that _throb_ I just sensed, he can't deny how much he wants it anymore.

“_Now_, Armand.” I hiss, looking down at him with wild hunger.

And if he still stares at me for a few seconds, of course, he eventually drops his gaze, and with a soft, docile voice, he whispers “Yes, Your Majesty.”

_Louis-_ my heart cries for, but he takes my hand between his and pulls it to his mouth before I can ask for anything.

He opens his lips to swallow two of my fingers, his eyes closed, his tongue sinful, and I moan, delirious, as I feel him soaking them in slow circles. I slide my hand in and out of his mouth, watching, dizzy, his moves matching those of my hips, and soon enough my cries grow so loud I'm almost relieved when he lets go of me.

But it is only to guide my hand down there, his worried frown telling me he's almost as uneasy as I am. His fingertips rub against my cock once or twice, to make up for him pushing it away to make place for my fingers.

“One at a time.” He breathes. “Be gentle.”

I shoot up a questioning glance at him, _are you sure?_ But he nods, reassuring, shifting his wounded hands around my shoulders. I keep my eyes on his face, holding on to my need to overcome the fear of hurting him _again._ But the first slick finger slides in, and his gasp doesn't seem to be made of pain. I move, slowly, my rock-hard cock brushing against his thigh with every thrust, and at some point, he begs _“deeper,”_ and I let out a strangled cry.

I do as he says, surprised at how easy it is by now, and he starts moving his hips a little. He's tight, he's burning, and the mere thought of what I'm preparing him for blurs my vision in flashes of white light. In a twitch of want, I brush something inside him, and he _wails_, arching up, his fingers, though damaged, still scratching my back with authority.

“Please, _please,_ do that again,” he begs, the sound like music to my ears, and I find that spot once more, pushing in a bit harder.

The cry he lets out, _oh God_.

I chose a firm rhythm, feeling him loosen up, and I add another finger without a word from him. He cries out, gladly giving up control once more, and the sight of him, subdued to the slightest of my moves, his whole body tense and arched up, his breath suspended to the twists of my wrist, drives me insane with power. 

Everything he is, is mine to command. _Mine, forevermore._

I soon feel comfortable enough to start kissing his neck as I thrust in him, feeling his pulse racing wildly, my mouth receiving the echoes of his shudders. I _play_ him for a while, enjoying how perfectly he responds to my every whim, but at some point one of his clever hands slides down to my cock again, stroking it in firm twists, while the other implores me back between his legs.

I glance up at him once more, _are you sure_, but his cheeks are flushed pink, and his eyes are blurred with need, his hips in devilish waves making it clear how _eager_ he is. His legs cross tight behind my back, and as I slide my fingers out, he whimpers in sheer loss, the sound of it so obscene I have to moan some more.

He reaches out for my face, cupping it in soft, injured hands, and while his eyes embrace me in heavenly love, it's with a sinful rasp his lips plead against mine.

“Take me, my King. _Take everything_.”

I scream in a delirious haze, King of all Kings, and sheathe myself deep inside him.

He hisses in pain, and I could pull out, but his legs are still locked around me, leaving me no choice but to succumb to the heat, the wetness of him. God, he's tight, he's burning, he feels so perfect I can't breathe. I cry out his name, moving fast, unable to control anything, vanquished by the arching of his hips.

His whole body jolts with every impact of our bodies, but he doesn't seem to mind, his eyes fixed upon mine, his hands gripping my arms. Pleasure comes back fast in the sounds he lets out, and I do try at least to angle myself right. His cries grow higher, and I have to make him look away, or the fire in his eyes will have me finished right there.

So I grab a fistful of his hair, pull his head backwards and expose his throat. I lick and bite there, as good as I can, while _God, he feels like burning silk inside. _

The wooden floor creaks under the force of my thrusts. When one of his hands blindly reaches for my cloak to press it against his mouth and muffle his cries, I slap it out of his reach.

“No.” I pant. “Cry out. Cry out for me.”

And I slow down my rhythm, going deeper, biting him, claiming him as mine. _Cry out, he does. _

God, the sounds of him will be my death.

His hips move to join mine, waving, endearing, and though I sense him close, tensing around me in almost painful bliss, his hands around my face are still barely touching, brushing my jaw in untainted adoration.

Here he lies, divine creature, his bleeding hands brushing my skin in absolute love.

Here he is, my clever Beast, passing a slick tongue upon his lips at the right time.

What are you, my only love?

_A sinful snake?_

_The Lamb of God?_

“Armand,” I call out, and this is the only answer ever I want to hear.

My rhythm grows chaotic, pleasure burning the heart of me, and I cry out at every move, feeding upon his twitches of bliss. I cannot know when he begins, and I end, we are one, merged together upon the flag of future France, and after all, haven't we always been?

His fingers grab more than they stroke, and I gladly let him bruise my skin. He pulls me closer, a flash of fear into his eyes, and I know of the dreadful fall pleasure can be. One of my hands leaves his hair to hold his face, and though my moves remain merciless, I kiss his cheek to say _I'm here. _

I feel then, the exact moment when he lets go, and he spasms around me, tensing so hard he could snap. He curls under my weight, closing upon me, and as his wet lips graze my ear, I hear it, I hear it clear.

“_Louis_.” He calls. “Louis.”

He exhales a long, shuddering moan, and I feel my stomach drenched in thick, hot spurts.

I think I fall, seconds later. I think I shout, I'm not quite sure.

I think I feel thunder, I think I see white light.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore.

The only thing I know is that something old, something foul finally breaks inside of me, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, crying the sobs of a child who had died so many years ago.

I cry, aching, I cry, at last.

I cry in pain for every day I spent unloved, no matter how I tried, no matter what I learned. I cry for the stern look on my mother’s face, I cry for the black blood in my father’s mouth. I cry in the suffering of a nuptial bed turned into a chamber of torture, and my younger years swallowed by a nightmare of cold, damp sheets. I cry in the agony of my whole family dancing upon my grave while I lay still alive, laughter and music being heard while I’m left to die alone.

I cry in the cold grip of anger, pushing me through every night towards a new morning, keeping me standing tall upon my own sorrows, but always sucking more life out of my soul that it ever cared to give.

I cry for the purgatory of my miserable life, finally finding balance into the storm beyond the seawall.

I don’t know how long it lasts, but after a while I think my sobs calm down and I go limp upon him, dizzy with fatigue, blinking slowly. I feel my body still shaken by tremors I cannot suppress, _God, his skin is drenched with my tears, what have I done?_

  
I cannot show myself weak, not to him, not ever.

Smothered by shame, I move to pull away, to run, to hide. I can't.

Armand is gripping me tight against him, his arms locked around my shoulders, laying delicate kisses along my collarbone, muttering sweet nothings to the skin he finds there. The adoration in his voice remains untainted, the docility in his limbs unchanged.

I am still his Master.

He’s welcoming my sorrow with devoted patience, wrapping my pain in soft warmth, and the love I hear in the soothing sounds he exhales against my neck is so pure I am forced into relief.

_Divine creature, the Lamb of God. _

But soon after, I remember I’m still deep inside him, our skins glued by sweat and semen, and as I pull out gently, that lewd moan of his, rumbling in my ear, makes me shudder in bliss.

_Corrupted Beast, the sly demon._

Who is he, my only love?

“Armand,” I call out, and this is the only answer ever I want to know.

We kiss some more, too tired or too stunned to get up, before a wince he couldn’t hide reminds me he’s been crushed between my body and the hard wooden floor for more than an hour now, and God, _he came in here underfed and bleeding_.

I gasp, whipped back into action, and jump on the side of him to slide my arms under his legs and shoulders. I lift him up, _bloody hell he weights nothing_, and carry him to the bed. He mutters confused protests, vaguely grappling to stand on his own, but I hiss his resistance away.

“_Quiet,_” I order.

He freezes instantly, biting his lips shut and lowering himself on the bed, but I know by now that my sharp commands give him more pleasure than frustration. I see him shiver a bit and realise the neglected wood fire has almost died, leaving the room at the mercy of November. I pull the heavy covers of my bedding over him and tell him to stay put.

I walk to the hearth to revive the fire, then, grabbing my shirt along the way and putting it on. I set some water to boil, preparing a basin, a cloth.

As I stride back to the bed to wash us both, spending time on his hands and face first, letting the warm water soothe his abused skin, I don't understand why he gasps and raises his eyebrows. As I push away the basin to fetch a tray of fresh apples that have been left there by Achilles, finding my hunting knife to cut one of the fruits in thin slices, offering them to him one by one until he's properly fed, I don’t understand why he stares at me like that. As I uncork one more bottle of wine to pour him the three glasses he requires before some decent colours come back to his cheeks, I don’t understand why he almost gapes.

Only when I retrieve the bandage box I bring along to every hunt and open it on the bed for him I take in the sight I must be, serving him food, wine, and lotions without the slightest hitch.

I pause in my agitation, looking down at myself sitting on the bed. It doesn't feel strange. It's only natural. I owe him nothing less. _I owe him everything. _

I look back at his face. _Heh_. He's almost comical in his confusion, his body and mind relentlessly washed out by the ocean of our first times. I kiss his brow. I feel an idiotic smile spreading on my lips, and I won’t fight it this time. _I am still his Master. _He won't think me weak.

“Don't look at me like that.” I laugh. “Show me your hands.”

He obeys on pure instinct, and I inspect his wounds. Only four or five of them will need bandages. For the rest, my balm should suffice. I rummage through the box to find this ancient oil only Benedictine monks can prepare. My father always carried some with him, just like my grandfather used to do.

“What is this?” Armand mutters, his hands already recoiling from the unknown with the persistent wariness of a man everyone hates.

I tut once, and he extends his hands again with an apologetic look.

“I never knew,” I admit, unscrewing the lid. “But it works just fine.”

I grab his hands, turn them around, so the palms face up, and pour a fair amount of oil into them. I rub it on his ravaged fingers. He hisses in pain. I keep rubbing, _gentler. _

After two fingers, he exhales peacefully, feeling, I am sure, his sharp ache turn to a numb, comfortable tingling.

I know the wonders this unguent does. As a child, I almost ran into small cuts and bruises to have my father take care of them. I provoked Gaston, I challenged my instructors, I even taunted Generals into duels, just to show off my wounds to Henry the Fourth.

“Ay, look at this rooster!” He always guffawed. “A Bourbon is never afraid of the rumble.”

And every time he went into his pocket to pull out this small pot, I heard trumpets of glory. To me, this smell, a bit like fresh lemon dipped in thyme, is the smell of paradise lost.

I never shared it until now.

After four fingers, he seems to forget about pain entirely and watches my hands stroking circles upon his with wide, fascinated eyes.

After the first hand, a fiery spark comes to life in his stare, and his sighs of contentment slowly turn to faint moans of pleasure. Every time, my breath hitches at the sound.

By the time I'm done, his small cries have got me panting in want, and I tend to the last two fingers while licking his neck in hungry moans.

Devilish, tempting snake, he slides down into the bed, and I am forced to follow once more, unable to pull away from his skin. I bite a clear message below his ear, _don't you dare take control, _and he moans his will to _serve_ into my ear with sinful, maddening words. Within seconds I'm pressed against him from chest to groin again, crying out in delight as his warmth wraps around my very soul, and with a few slow, skilful waves of his hips, I'm hard and throbbing between his legs.

He offers his neck and submits his eyes of burning embers as always, but as I start to wipe my balm-glued hands on my shirt, his nimble fingers grab them tight and guide them downwards upon myself instead. He gently urges me to stroke my own cock a few times, and I understand what use exactly this clever, twisted mind of his has imagined for the rest of the oil.

“Machiavelli.” I spit, but when the last syllable is cut short by a moan of raw bliss, my insult loses all purpose.

He smiles, humble but confident, parting his legs, lowering his eyes. His lips are red and swollen, strands of silver thread crossing his damp forehead in a graceful mess of pale light. His milky skin almost glows upon my bed, and his pink shaft twitching against his stomach is the most provocative thing I've ever seen. The sight of him almost wipes out my mind, and I move to slip the first finger in, but he gently discards my hand.

“_Please, Louis_,” he says, shifting his hips against my cock, and I let out the growl of a famished animal.

I'm buried inside him in the next heartbeat, sliding with perfect ease into burning silk again.

He yells, his head thrown back, and his hands come to grab the bed frame above his head. I try to make it slow; I try to keep control, but the _sounds_ he lets out, like an untamed melody of cries and soft praise, make it all very difficult. I barely manage to take more time, since he’s lying in a real bed instead of wooden planks, but once more in his ecstasy he calls my name. _Louis_, he moans, and I’m doomed, lost in the depths of him again.

As I slump next to him afterwards, still heaving with delight, I swear I do intend to let him rest. But fool that I am, _fool that I am_, candlelight paints the outline of his face with the gold of rare treasures, and I am drawn to his skin by a force I’ll never subdue.

By a war I was never meant to win.

He doesn’t beckon, he doesn’t call me, he doesn’t even glance into my eyes, his stare lost upon our cloaks spread on the floor, and yet soon enough I close my fist into his hair again, hardening over the mere sight of a drop of his own seed rolling around his hipbone. He feels the change in my breathing and turns to me questioningly. He glances at my face, then down, and up again. He pales, then, half impressed, half _terrified_.

I see hesitation flickering in his eyes, and for a moment I’m sure he’s about to plead for his old age again, but eventually, he only lowers his head with the hint of a smile on his thin white lips. He flops back on the bed, arches up his hips, and he nods his consent, just once.

I shift on top of him, my snarl just as ravenous as before, and drown into him all over again.

If I let go of him eventually, it’s only because he flinched once or twice between two cries of pleasure, and because he didn’t come as loud as I like him to. I swear to God I feel like I'll live and die_ hungering _for him, but if I go on like this, he's going to snap in two.

So I clean us up once and for all, kiss his temple, and whisper in crude praise how _satisfied _I am with his obedience. He closes his eyes in sheer rapture and sags into the bed, exhaustion catching fast upon his abused body. I laugh, pull the covers over both of us and drag him towards me until his head rests upon my arm.

I expect him to fall asleep within seconds, but he doesn't. He seems to be truly looking around my bedroom for the first time instead, taking in the colours of my walls, my plain furniture, my choice of paintings, _God, it's true, he has never seen Versailles before. _

Every officer in my army has, but not him. I wince a bit.

“I meant to invite you,” I mutter, “but there has been war, we've been sick, and you're not fond of hunting I know...”

He shakes his head gently and lays a kiss upon my shoulder. He understands. _He always does. _

He sits up with a grace I'll never achieve, keeping a fistful of my sheets over his heart, and stares through the windows for a while. Moonlight, his sister, rushes inside to pay tribute to his cheekbones and underline the length of his eyelashes, _heavens, is he beautiful._

It's about time I cease to deny how blissful I feel.

King of all Kings. Crowned in glory by my name in his voice.

I am holy, I am absolute. _I am happy. _

My fingers pass through his hair without much thought, and he has a dreamy smile for the forest outside. Thin rain has started to fall, tapping against the windows like a bashful lover throwing pebbles for a serenade. Soon frost will be creeping up the high trees, freezing the streams into vacant mirrors. Soon the wolves will be coming closer to the villages, emboldened by hunger. Soon there will be time for another war.

But right now, not tonight.

_God, I am happy. _

His peaceful stare passes upon the mess of our clothes on the floor again, and he seems to find those colours just as promising as I did. But his face darkens as he notices the letter of exile, still neatly laid next to his robes, and I _feel_ that nasty shiver sweeping his whole spine just as much as he does. This might be a final sentence, but it still bears her name, and this will always be the name of his nightmares.

“Armand...” I start, but he shakes his head and gestures that he's fine.

Still, he glances at me over his delicate shoulder and asks, his voice roughened by both dark memories and hours of moaning alike.

“Will you have the letter delivered or will you hand it over yourself?”

With that, I let out a dark chuckle that barely sounds like me.

“I will have none of it.” I snap. “I'll have the whole Court gathered in the Council Room in grand apparel and _read that letter out loud_.”

He gasps, lifting a trembling hand to his lips. I can read in his eyes a thousand concerns being listed in a heartbeat, infinite combinations of consequences being weighed one by one by his quick mind, and I want none of this anguish, not now, _not tonight. _

The words are out, the letter is signed. The decision has been made, and I won't step back.

My father, above the mantelpiece, will remain silent forevermore.

I am free, at last_. __King of all things. _

My hand in his hair closes upon a firm grip, and I gently tug him down against me once more, forcing him to look at me in the eyes as I hammer, imperative, definite.

“I want her humiliated ten times the amount she dared to humiliate you. I want everyone to stare as she turns her back and leaves Paris to never return. I want despair to be the last face I ever see of her.”

His stare widens, and he goes very still, captivated by my voice. He feels absolute control dripping from my words, and sighs like a man whose work is almost done, but there's still a veil of bitterness over his face as he timidly looks aside.

“And yet, she hasn't been entirely wrong.” He breathes to the fleur-de-lis carved on my nightstand. “I am nothing more than a low-breed...”

“Shut up.” I cut in.

“Please, Louis, please understand.” He begs, still averting his eyes. “You've never seen Luçon or my family. In fact, I am-”

“You are _everything_.”

He freezes, looking back at me in confused awe. I kiss him deeply, praising his mouth in focused paths until he moans more than he worries. When I feel his hands brushing up my arms again, I pull apart to lift his chin up with one finger and give him a solemn, yet gentle look.

His gaze of anthracite meets mine with the adoration of saints, with the hunger of demons. Who is he, my only love? Armand.

_Only Armand. _

The decision has been made. There never has been a choice.

_Behold, father, the only thing left to be done. _

“Besides” I declare, “by the time I'll be reading that letter, you will be Duke and Pair de France, standing at my right just where you should be, and will be until the end of our lives.”

His cheeks whiten in shock. He doesn't move. He doesn't look like he can. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't look like he can.

I only hear a strangled cry, and his wild, glassy stare shatters into thick tears again, dripping down his face to scatter on the pillow in darker spots of grey.

“Those...” He cries, still petrified under my hands. “Those are the highest titles in the Kingdom.”

“Yes, they are.” I nod. “Tell me exactly _who_ deserves them if you don't?”

He opens his mouth to do just that, I think, but joy has already stolen every protest he could have found, lighting up his features with pride and relief. He breathes in, his chest unlocked, and exhales a short, stunned laugh. He blindly reaches for my hand and kisses it in peaceful devotion, his shoulders dropping in deliverance.

He looks ten years younger. _He looks appeased at last._

  
At my side, he thrives. In my arms, he blooms.

My name has a meaning, my world fell into place.

I am King of divine right, crowned in glory by my name in his voice.

_Armand feels safe._

I know a wide smile is crawling across my lips. I won't fight it. Tonight I am proud, and I am happy_. _

“Now get up and fetch me wine, _Your Highness_ _Duc de Richelieu_.” I taunt, nodding towards the unfinished bottle on the floor. “I want no more talk until morning.”


	11. November the 15th 1630, Reception Room, the Louvre, Paris.

I didn't want to leave Versailles.

We slept there, I think, for more than twelve hours. I woke up in the early afternoon with Armand curled at my side, shifting quietly in his sleep. Outside, thick clouds of mist were still lingering around the head of the tall pines, keeping the woods peaceful and dark. I smiled. This was a perfect day for hunting. I craved the sound of twigs broken by the hooves of a horse, the smell of undergrowth in the autumn air, the rays of timid light between branches.

My body shivered with the need to run and seek, forceful, spirited.

I felt mighty. _I felt immortal. _

I dropped a kiss on his shoulder, jumped out of bed and revived the fire, neglecting yesterday’s attire to pick up hunting clothes. I ran down to the kitchens myself since there was no one to call for. I told Achilles to keep _everyone _out, after all, and I trusted him on this.

I pillaged the pantry, humming the main tune of a ballet I've been meaning to write, and brought back dark bread and fresh milk upstairs. I swept a table clean there, folded our cloaks away, picked up the letter of exile on the floor and slid it into my doublet, still murmuring so cheerfully it must have pulled Armand out of sleep at some point.

Seeing him crawl on the bed, blinking dreams away from his eyes and searching around for me in growing panic, I came to sit on the spot he left warm, nuzzling his hair with a groan of delight. It was silken soft and smelled like sleep.

“Good morning, Armand.” I breathed into the silver thread.

He shivered in bliss, turning to look up at me with disbelieving joy.

“Louis.” He exhaled, and it was my turn to quiver.

I offered him a shirt of mine as I pushed him towards the food because I didn't want his robes to cover this frail neck from my sight yet. While he ate in slow, obedient bites, I meant to sit quietly next to him at first. But soon enough I couldn’t help but leave the table to pace around him instinctively, stealing bread from his plate, striding in circles like a caged wolf. I kept glancing outside, searching for silhouettes of wildlife in the misty woods, energy pulsing in my guts. There was nothing I could do to hide this frenzied joy I barely understood.

My body, I suppose, wanted to feel as free as my mind was.

“Come with me outside.” I ended up asking, gesturing towards the windows. “The best horses I own are in Versailles. They’d take you anywhere.”

“Outside?” he repeated, his both hands around a cup of warm milk, his eyes going from my face to the woods in meek confusion.

I smiled, agitated, and talked a bit too fast again, as I always do when I sense I'm about to be proved wrong.

“The forest is superb at this time of the year. Too many people despise autumn, it's all nonsense, you’ll see. I'll find you riding clothes; you must have a tour of the old mill. Have you tasted the hares of these lands? I’ll bring my pistol, no doubt we'll -”

“Your Majesty.” He gently cut in.

I clapped my mouth shut in a thwarted face. I knew it. _‘Your Majesty’_ meant reason was coming. Duties, law, state, and order. Even there, even then, even after such a night, with the faint bruises of my passion still visible on his collarbones, he was still the First Minister of a country in the making. He was still the resolve that forged France.

“Your Majesty,” he added in a tamed, yet firm voice, “when I left the Palais Cardinal yesterday night, the Queen Mother was giving a sumptuous ball in her apartments, celebrating your choosing her over me. As we talk, she must have surrounded herself with all the people she foresees as… replacements, making serious plans for your overthrowing, and having no doubt already settled the scenario of my own suppression.”

I swiftly turned to the northwest windows, gritting my teeth in sheer rage, as if I could see the Louvre from here. I remembered her in the Petit-Luxembourg, spluttering filthy insults, her whole body shuddering with a maniacal will to hurt.

  
The pain in Armand’s eyes as she spat her bile right at his face.

_This rancid, shrieking monster needed to be locked up until she died. _

Huffing with fury, I sensed my fists clenching hard enough to bruise, until bandaged fingers gently wrapped around them, stroking comfort upon my knuckles. I looked down into his bright eyes, and he had a quick, lopsided smile.

“Nevertheless,” he mused, “I guess one hour or two won’t make that much of a difference.”

Again, once more, my anger melted like ice in summertime, lost in the glow of silver thread. I clasped his hands, grinned in delight and darted away to find him clothes.

_One hour or two won’t make that much of a difference_, he said.

Well, he gave me three.

We met Achilles in the stables just as I thought, and I asked him to prepare Aiglon, my young stallion, for me, and Dalila, my quietest mare, for Armand. The old man had it all done in minutes, handing me the reins and his key to the old mill with a smile I didn't want to decipher at all.

The forest welcomed us in serene hues of green and grey, mushrooms bubbling up at the surface of the Earth like the scattered eggs of a foreign bird. I rode fast in between trees, bending low to avoid branches, jumping over the streams. Armand followed, never truly far behind, struggling a bit at first, then, gradually keeping up with me with more curiosity than effort.

I pushed him deep into the woods, to those places where sunlight barely ever pierced through the veil of oak branches, pointing at the meadows where deer, roes, and boars could be found. My nervous stallion drew loops and circles where his peaceful mare trotted in straight lines, and Armand watched with a knowing smile as both my mount and I delightfully exhausted ourselves. Though he looked natural in those old hunting leathers of mine, he still refused to even take a pistol in his hands, gladly letting me spot and shoot the hares myself.

I actually shot two of them that afternoon. One for him to eat later, and one for the mere show of it. He praised my aim. I brushed his cheek.

_God, I was happy. _

My trophies tied to my saddle, I lead him uphill towards the old mill, where he could see the whole lodge and the smooth expanse of wild trees spreading towards the horizon. He asked if I had plans for gardens, and I laughed heartily.

“This place doesn't even have a reception hall,” I said, and I added, pointing at the endless forest ahead of us. “Look! My gardens are here.”

Then we dismounted, and I pulled out the key.

The windmill is centuries old, but still in perfect working order, and we found it rumbling there upon his dune of thick wet grass, ancient King upon his throne, unwavering as I'll never be.

We stepped inside the narrow belly of the mill, watching the wooden gears and solid ropes sliding against each other in perfect efficiency, pushing the stone wheel that was crushing the wheat of my lands into the flour our morning bread was made of.

Armand kept sweeping an amazed stare upon the ancient mechanism for quite some time and, carried away by his responsiveness maybe, I rolled up my own sleeves to pour a fresh sack of grain into the tank. The monstrous wheel continued to work all the same, and a thicker stream of flour soon started to fall into wide buckets at his feet.

He watched me adjust and repair a few loose dowels around the axis of the wheel, and in my enthusiasm I spoke, for the first time I think, of my belief in the virtues of manual work, and my dream to impose a simpler life to the Court, away from intrigue and futilities, towards an ideal of righteousness, where every nobleman would have at least once in his life dirtied his hands in the crafts of common folk.

He huffed a bitter sigh, and as he watched the mill turn in quiet, stubborn force, he discouraged my hopes in one sentence.

“Such a blessing would indeed add rectitude where there isn't enough and cut expenses where there are too much, but unfortunately the prestige of Royal Courts in Europe is measured in nothing more than futilities and a King displaying artworks by the hundred, extravagant buffets and overpriced parties will be said to be wise, where the one who can rule a war council just as well as he grinds his own flour will only be described as a bit _dull_.”

I bit my lips, my hand distractedly stroking waves into a bag of seed.

The Louvre, glowing with chandeliers of gold, heavy with hearths of fine marble, still as filthy as a tavern's doorstep. The Louvre, sparkling in jewellery and silk brocade, still buzzing in mockery and vile rumours. The Louvre, where no peace can be found, the darkest mud of all humanity filling every porcelain plate.

I turned my head towards the only window of the mill, offering a view of my Versailles, its walls plain, its shape bare, its forest left untouched, both wild and peaceful as only nature can be.

“Then I guess I'll be the dull King.” I shrugged.

I heard Armand behind my back let out a faint chuckle, and humbly shift close until his voice was nothing less than a caress of silk laid against my shoulder.

“I don't think I ever heard 'Louis, the Dull' shouted in the streets,” he said, and I remember I smiled.

_I want to hear only your words and no one else's until the end of time_, I thought, spinning around to crush our mouths together and have a taste of that silver tongue of his.

We stayed like this for a long time, locked up in that old mill, kissing and groping like the illegitimate lovers we were. Ignited by the ride and the smell of autumn into his hair, I moved to lay him down into the wheat and take him again right there, but, laughing, he still appealed to the Reason of State, listing the duties awaiting us in Paris.

I didn't want to leave Versailles. Only there I can be free.

_Only there can I be me. _

  
But he was right, he always is, and I satisfied myself with a sharp bite in the crook of his neck.

***

“Are they all in?” I ask Schomberg as I step into the Louvre's main Hall.

The General nods, pointing at the Reception Room doors over his shoulder.

“They have been for more than an hour, Your Majesty” He quietly states. “It's getting _fidgety_ in there.”

I smile darkly. _Very Good. _

A decision has been made. I said I wouldn't step back.

I returned from Versailles a few days ago, followed by Armand, and set myself on discrete preparations right away. I wrote and signed all required documents in absolute secrecy, then just as I promised him, I summoned the whole Court in the Reception Hall, demanding formal wear and absolute silence.

Above all, I expressly ordered Mother to be waiting there, not sitting on her armchair next to mine as usual, but on her feet, and down the five steps of the platform my throne stand alone on by now. 

Now, I am sure that news of my returning from Versailles with Richelieu at my side have already made their tour of the corridors, and I assume her dogs are all aware of my choice not being the one my mother was singing about after all, but they don't know anything else about my plans. And that's precisely why making them wait for it is part of the pleasure.

I turn towards Treville, impressive in his ceremony armour, his blue cloak swirling around his knees.

“Are your Musketeers ready?” I ask, and he bows fervently.

“Always, Your Majesty.”

Now, I trust him entirely upon that. So, my smile warming up, I spin around quietly to look at Armand standing behind me.

_God, the glorious sight he is. _

He chose his formal robes of darker silk, of course, and that priceless coat of white fur cascading from his shoulders to curl around his feet like a vanquished prey. His eyelids kept low, his chin held high, he's bearing the haughty and magnificent stance he practically invented. The powder in his hair was unnecessary I think, but he's entitled to a bit of show I suppose. After all, he paid a high price for this very minute.

Besides, it makes him look almost surreal, all in pristine white and darkest red, like an angel of death painted by a madman. He obliterates everyone in the room, including me, and I could feel hurt if he didn't lower head and look aside _that way_ the second out gazes meet.

He's gorgeous. _And he's mine._

My Beast, my creature now.

Swelled by raging pride, I move towards the Reception rooms.

“Walk with me, Cardinal,” I command, and he bows gracefully before he slides at my side in a heavy hiss of silk and fur.

We both stop right before the gates, Schomberg and I sharing a knowing glance. He and Bassompierre nearly fought for the honour of making our entrance announcements yesterday night as I explained my plans for the day to them, their argument about which one of them had the deepest voice raging on until Schomberg won over by singing a _Te Deum_ in the middle of my library.

“Don't miss one word, General,” I whisper.

“On my honour, Your Majesty” He promises.

I nod, and the soldier snaps for the doors to be opened wide. He strides in the Reception Room, then clicking his heels, and declares, “His Majesty Louis de France!”

Upon a last smile for Armand, I walk forward, alone, just as I planned. I walk in a straight line to the platform, climb up the steps and sit heavily upon my throne, keeping my eyes high above the Courtiers' heads. The wide ballroom is glittering with ornaments, high mirrors and morning sun, the very best fabrics of France displayed in hundreds of combinations upon the walls, but no matter how rich, this place is still nothing more than a pigpen right now, reeking of fear and wariness. They're all looking at me I'm sure, anxious, distressed, some of them already in prayer.

Well, pray, lowlifes. Pray; it's your last right.

I wait for a few tensed heartbeats, then nod towards Schomberg.

The General clicks his heels again, and states, loud and clear, “_His Highness Cardinal de Richelieu, Duke and Pair de France, Generalissime and superintendent of the Armies, Minister of the Royal Council__!_”

The _tremor_ his new titles unleash into the crowd rises and falls in a mighty wave for the whole time he takes to gracefully step in and walk up to my side. I savour every minute of it, letting it echo for a while in panicked or stunned whispers, and then, only then, I look down at _her_, smiling in sweet revenge.

She's standing at my feet, just as I ordered, her face twisted by shock, and around her the dogs she promised the world to are all trembling in fear.

They should. _They’re next. _

Marillac and Bellegarde, traitors to the Crown, have already been arrested. Bellegarde will end his days in Vincennes, and Marillac, _his head will roll. _

I see next to her Father Suffren and that whore Elbeuf, two of her new toys, whimpering in sheer terror, _oh, that's right, filth, you can snivel, your letters of exile are already signed, _while Gaston, her cherished son on the other side of her, his eyes fixed on his boots, is searching, I'm sure, for new ways to save his skin.

And she - 

_She. _

She's painfully clinging upon the last scraps of her facade, playing an improvised role somewhere between the Martyr and the Rebel, but between her measured sobs and fake cries, I watch in dark joy her whole stance _splintering_. Her hands shudder around her massive chest, and cold sweat is dripping through the thick layers of cream she always plasters upon her face.

I _see_ she wants to run away more than anything right now, but I ordered her to stand and wait, and she has to do so if she wants to save what's left of her dignity.

So I take my time, I really do, as I leisurely pull a thin tube of paper out of my doublet, unroll it and clear my voice.

Protocol dictates I stand, but I won't. That's my gift to Armand, in return for the one he had for me in La Rochelle, that small step backwards to let sunlight shine upon me.

Well, today, his silhouette of frost and blood will be the highest stronghold of this room, and the whole Kingdom will witness how _definite _my choices are.

My Beast, my creature.

His name and mine engraved in History. I owe him nothing less. _I owe him everything. _

I start reading out.

As the words unfold, mother sobs and gasps and cries, recoiling in humiliation, unable to even look at Armand in the eyes. She's shrinking away from him like a cave rat blinded by daylight, like his shadow itself was a pit leading straight to Hell, but I don't pause, I don't stop. I read everything, slow and deliberate until the last words vibrate through the astounded, silent hall.

“...And while I can promise you my regards as a good son, these measures hereby announced are categorical, and will not be discussed ever again.”

My speech done, I fold the letter in half and hand it over to Armand.

I pass a stern glance upon the array of speechless faces gathered in front of me, daring anyone to let out one, just _one_ sound of protest. Behind me, Schomberg and Treville both have their hands upon their swords.

None of the Courtiers utter a single word.

Mother is left alone to wail in her downfall, huffing and panting, clinging to the arms of d'Elbeuf who clearly wishes she was anywhere else but here. The Medici has run out of masquerades to expose, and the spectacle of her is nothing more than pathetic by now. The silence of rejection around her is becoming unbearable, I know, so I make it last as long as I possibly can.

If I weren't doing it for me, I'd still do it for _him_.

He's at my side, tall and graceful with her letter of exile clutched in his slender hands. He's at my side, magnificent, and I know he's watching.

_Look, Armand, look, feast your eyes. See your pain redeemed, see my justice done. _

Watch her misery repay all the wrong she ever did to you.

At some point, shattering the tensed silence, someone in the back unexpectedly shouts “_Louis, le Juste!_” and the sound of it is like a bullet in her knees.

She sways backwards, and her puppets have to pull a chair under her thighs before she collapses like a house of cards. The low wave of whispers fiercely grows back across the room, and the living mass of Courtiers starts to shift and move, clusters forming, sides being switched. An embarrassed circle of empty space is quickly spreading around her and the handful of dogs still clinging to her promises. The Medici is ruined. I never felt so victorious.

And yet, I didn't want to leave Versailles.

As I stand here by now, acclaimed by the crowd, no matter how triumphant I am under the Palace's golden light, I still long for the low rumble of my old mill, and the smell of autumn leaves upon Armand's naked skin.

I watch my mother shake and gripe for one more minute, and then decide I've had enough. I turn to Treville and hiss a short order. The Captain bows and has a nod for the back of the room. Twelve Musketeers immediately step close, forming a neat circle around her. She quickly understands she can either leave on her own will or be pushed outside by my soldiers, and she gathers herself up, sobbing in throaty cries.

  
  


Just as I wanted, just as I craved for, her last look for me before she crawls towards the doors, followed by Elbeuf and Suffren, is utterly lost and desperate. Just as I wanted, just as I planned, the last I will ever see of her face is a hopeless, cruel defeat, and yet, _and yet_, a forlorn pain sparks in my guts, because she bends forward in her distress, and she has never looked so small.

There goes my mother, there goes my family.

I had hoped for nothing more than the love of my kin.

I had aimed for a life purged of all sin.

But God, you have made me King.

_And she made me so angry._

The door closes behind her back, and I have a tired look for the whole Court. All gazes are dropped on the floor. Good.

I have made myself clear.

With that, I stand up to storm out of the Hall, gesturing for Schomberg, Treville and Armand to follow. I stride without a word straight to my study, crushing melancholy under the weight of my certitude. I pass under a portrait of my father. He doesn't say a word. I don't think he ever will.

Once locked there with the three of them I lay my both hands flat upon a table, my eyes blankly staring at a map of Spain unrolled there, trying not to notice the caravan of carriages outside the windows in the courtyard. I exiled thirty-five people today, and their hasty preparations, done in confused cries and stunned curses, look like a tragicomical Exodus.

Around the line of vehicles, Bassompierre's regiment is idly standing as I ordered, the most _persuasive_ escort I ever proposed.

“Bassompierre will remain stationed in Blois for a while.” I hiss to the coastline of Catalonia. “To ensure the Queen Mother and her suite stay in the domain that's been assigned to them.”

“How long, Your Majesty?” Treville boldly asks, making me jump out of my thoughts.

I blink at him, trying to understand the worry in his handsome features.

“Captain?” I mutter, and the Musketeer, hesitant, looks around for support.

  
Armand remains, of course, unreadable, but since Schomberg is vehemently nodding his approval, Treville finds the nerve to add, “We all know she'll try to escape. May it be after a week, a month, a year, she won't stay in Blois. She'll most likely run North to a City near the Spanish border and try to gather influence again.”

I stand frozen, echoes of the Exodus outside dancing in the silent study. I can try and laugh at his grim predictions for sure, but somewhere, somehow, I know he's right.

My dear Mother, the eternal figurehead of my enemies. An arch, a symbol for all the disgruntled souls of France. It won't stop, will it? _It won't ever stop. _

I huff in worn-out rage, banging my heel on the floor.

“And what exactly is the alternative, Treville?” I growl. “Sending my own mother to rot in prison for the rest of her life, like a feudal tyrant of the Dark Ages?”

“No!” The Captain lets out, raising his both hands in defence, but those clear eyes could never lie, and I know that's precisely what he thinks she deserves. “But maybe a permanent guard could be installed in Blois, like two hundred men taking shifts to -”

“I'm not paying two hundred good soldiers to stand in a circle around Blois for the twenty long years my mother might still have to live while war is threatening every corner of my Kingdom.” I cut in, and Treville bites his lips in frustration, lifting helpless eyes up to the ceiling.

Strained stillness spreads between the soldiers and me for a while, barely disturbed by the Flight of the Traitors scurrying in the courtyard. It lasts long enough for me to tear a dent in my map with rising turmoil, but at some point, a quieter voice rises from behind Schomberg's back.

“Let her escape,” Armand says, and both Officers spin around to gape at him.

He's the only one frankly looking through the window, half hidden from the outside by the heavy curtains no doubt, but poised and unashamed, feeding on the spectacle with his hands peacefully joined on his stomach.

“I beg your pardon?” The Captain grunts as if the Red Beast had been speaking tongues.

Armand doesn't move. He keeps staring at the hurried silhouettes pushing trunks and furniture in overloaded carts as he gently explains.

“You are perfectly right, Captain Treville. The Queen Mother has a persistent streak in her. She won't rest until she's out of our grasp and free to intrigue against the King once more. So what I suggest is for Bassompierre's guard to be purposefully lacking. With the strong mark His Majesty has just left upon her, she won't take long before she breaks her exile and runs away up North.”

“But we'll lose her, then, Cardinal!” Schomberg intercedes, spreading his arms in disbelief. “Who knows where she might go if we let her out of our sight?”

_“I do._” The Red Beast states, spinning around in a whirl of heavy robes.

Both soldiers stare, halfway between awe and suspicion, and me, well, I sometimes know when it's wiser to wait.

Richelieu softly walks towards me, lowering his head in apology as he pulls at the map right under the one I was crumpling to lay it on top of the table.

It's a detailed chart of Northern France and the United Provinces, used mostly for naval purposes. He traces a winding line from Blois to Brussels with a delicate finger as he speaks, disturbingly serene.

“She will go North since no Province of the South is steady enough to welcome her. The only citadels held by men who have proved themselves friendly to her causes are Douai, La Capelle, and Thionville. Now, in the course of this last week, those men have been replaced in secret by loyal Officers of the royal army. Hence, she'll find every door closed along her way, and will have no other choice than to push much further North, to the city of Mons, a place without wealth or strategic importance where her influence will be quite hard to rebuild. Besides, since Mons is Spanish land, she'll have moved over into enemy territories despite a direct order from her King, and she will by law lose her status as Queen, as well as her lands, pensions or possessions in their entirety. She will be banished from French soil in consequence, and His Majesty in this whole affair will be nothing else than a generous, compassionate, though ill-rewarded son.”

Speechless, I let myself fall into the nearest chair.

“_Sly bastard._” Treville hisses before he knows it, his eyes wide and fascinated.

The Red Beast straightens his back, then turning slowly towards him, and for the first time in my life, I think I see a brief flash of dread passing on the Captain's headstrong face.

“Should I take that as a compliment, Captain Treville?” Richelieu whispers, affable, _deadly. _

Treville's jaws work in silence as he bravely holds the Red Beast's stare, but eventually, he bows, stiff and reluctant, grumbling apologies under his breath.

At this very moment, in Armand's faint smile, I see glimpses of those years to come, about to be carved without mercy by the unbending hands of that man I just chose. I watch him for a while, living statue of an ancient emperor, carved in marble, draped in silk. I feel in my bones the power he exudes, elevated by my will, reinforced by my love.

At my side, he thrived. _In my arms, he bloomed. _

Armand de Richelieu feels safe, and France is barely prepared for the ruler it's turning him into.

I vaguely hear Schomberg asking me if I approve of this plan, and I nod without a word. The General bows, then, and rushes out to inform Bassompierre. With that, Treville politely asks if he can be excused, and I give one more nod. The Captain strides out the door, eyeing the tall red frame with dazzled vigilance.

The door slams shut, and silence reclaims his lost possessions.

Armand stares at the windows for a while, then he softly turns to me. Our eyes meet, and yes, he's imposing, grandiose, determined and shrewd. Yes, he's the red devil, the sly monster, the cunning snake. Yes, he's all those things and more, but I'm not worried, _not worried at all. _

Because the second I give the floor between my feet a harsh, quick nod, he exhales in relief, slides around the table and falls on his knees, a flawless study in white and red displayed for me to approve of. I snap, pointing at my left thigh, and he gently rests his head there, his warmth spreading fast straight to my heart.

I close my eyes, slump back on my chair, and pass relieved fingers into his silver hair. I look up above, at the Holy Cross in stucco adorning the ceiling and smile for it in sheer triumph.

This is it, this is exactly what they'll look like, those glorious years to come.

I'll be King of France, with only God above my head, only Armand at my feet.

And if the Red Beast makes the whole world shiver at the slightest move of his hand, he's still my shadow, my creation.

  
Divine creature or sly demon, he's still Armand, my dear Armand, _forever mine to command. _


End file.
